


No Fear of Falling

by Little_Cello



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sam!Whump, Torture, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Cello/pseuds/Little_Cello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam had come to accept his wings in a world where people simply did not have wings, but now he's been thrown into a world that demands completely new levels of adapting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE 2/3/2018: OFFICIALLY FINISHED!! Enjoy reading through the whole thing!
> 
> As yet unfinished, but I have high hopes for this one, and I'll do my best to finish this fic and update fairly regularly. <3 Title inspired by I Am Kloot's song of the same name, "No Fear of Falling". I hope you enjoy!
> 
> -
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: fleeting mention of self harm

Prologue

 

When Sam first noticed his wings, at the tender age of 4, he'd been thrilled. Wings! Real ones! They seemed to ignore his clothes completely, sticking out from his back as though fabric didn't exist at all, and they were too small for flying (he tried), but whenever his mum cuddled him, the gentle strokes felt heavenly. His mum of course didn't believe him when he told her about them, just smiled and nodded in that particular way that told Sam he wasn't being taken seriously. But that was okay. The wings were his own, his very own. He liked to think that they were a present from his dad - a promise that they were going to meet again, just as soon as Sam grew up and would be able to fly anywhere he wanted.

 

Because Sam believed with all of his heart that his wings would grow big, _massive_ one day, carrying him wherever he desired.

 

The only qualm he had with them was their colour. He didn't think black suited a policeman, a warrior of justice; he thought white would be much more fitting. But, well, he could cope with that. Batman had black wings too, after all.

 

**

 

6 years later, Sam found out that even if other people couldn't see his wings, they could still hurt them. Considerably.

 

**

 

5 years later, the wings were still tiny.

 

**

 

Another 5 years later, Sam wished he could hide them. Not that they ever got in the way - too tiny for that, he thought bitterly - but they unnerved him more often than not. It didn't matter that they were invisible to the rest of the world; he felt exposed, like they revealed his innermost feelings, the way they kept hanging low and refused to open up properly. He'd given up on them ever growing. They made him feel like a freak of nature.

 

He hated them.

 

**

 

10 years (and several aborted attempts at getting rid of them) after that, Sam had come to terms with being an oddity in his own world and thought nothing much of his wings. They were there, and that was all. Not exactly normal, but they didn't substantially impair his life either.

 

Or so he thought.

 

**

7 years later, Sam Tyler had an accident.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More wings!

33 years before and 30 minutes after the accident, Sam Tyler was standing in an office that used to or was going to be his but was something entirely different at that present moment. He was standing there and staring at the most magnificent pair of white wings he had ever seen. The man they were attached to was staring back, scrutinizing Sam with piercing eyes.

 

Sam had been about to demand to know what was going on, had even had a snarled comment on his lips along the lines of what bloody year it was supposed to be, but the sight of those wings had stopped him short, had made his eyes go wide. Even as he gazed at them, the wings moved gently, spreading, then settling down again. They formed a stark contrast to this beer-bellied, smoking man, who now said "Word in yer shell-like, pal" and before Sam could even move a finger, grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him inside his office.

 

Sam stumbled as the man let go of him, shoving him in the direction of a filing cabinet. Catching himself, he turned around - and no mistake, the wings were still there. Sam blinked, rubbed his eyes. Nope, still there, bristling slightly under Sam's disbelieving gaze.

 

"... Alright then, you gonna tell me what this is all about?”

 

The man's rough voice pulled Sam out of his state of paralysis. He was practically glaring at Sam, coming closer and closer until they were nose-to-nose. His chin raised, he was scrutinizing Sam intensely, who could only stare back, his eyes inevitably drawn back to the wings. In the light of this office they didn't seem so radiant anymore – off-white, rather, almost yellowy.

 

Sam yelped when suddenly, a tingling went through his wings and down his back, like electricity – the man had grabbed one of Sam's wings, roughly but expertly unfolding it. _No one_ had ever touched Sam's wings. The sensation was so unexpected, so alien, that his stomach twisted with sudden nausea. Without thinking, he batted away the man's hand with more force than they both expected, judging from the man's startled expression.

  
  


“Who the hell are you?” Sam snapped, having taken several steps back, to get some distance between the two of them. His violated wing was still twitching, the other unfolding and spreading its feathers in a pitiful imitation of his opposite's wingspan. This was all wrong, so wrong, and now the man's fists were balled into Sam's shirt again, pulling him in close.

  
  


“I'm Gene Hunt, your DCI, and you'll let me have at look at those pipe cleaners of yours if you know what's good for you,” he growled, eyes blazing. Once again, Sam could only stare and swallow, taken aback by the intensity of Hunt's gaze. He must be losing it – Maya's abduction, the car (Christ, he'd been _hit by a car_ ), waking up, walking through this strange Manchester as though through a twisted dream, and now, _this._ This man, glaring at him for one more second before turning Sam around suddenly, his hands on his wings again, applying just enough pressure to the joints to make them spread. A tremor went through Sam at that point, muscles tensing and fists clenching, but before he could lash out again and pull back, Hunt pressed a thumb to a point exactly between the roots of Sam's wings. Sam gasped, eyes wide, and it was all he could do not to let his knees buckle underneath him as he felt himself relax. The unease was still there, his skin crawling and the hair at the back of his neck standing up, but he couldn't for the life of him muster the necessary tension to fight back.

  
  


'Hold still,' Hunt said, his terse tone of voice not at all matching the clinical way he now examined Sam's wings, stroking along the ridge, almost gently raising one of the primary feathers, running a finger along the edge. Sam couldn't help but observe that the length of his own primaries was about a fraction of those of Hunt's; even the coverts looked firm and strong, as though they were as solid as a turtle's shell. Finally he let go, and Sam stumbled away, catching himself against a hopelessly messy desk.

  
  


'Don't you dare do that again,' he panted, but Hunt wasn't listening, raising his voice so as to drown out Sam.

  
  


'Those are about as useless as me gran's fake teeth. What happened?'

  
  


Sam stared back blankly. 'What?'

  
  


Hunt reached up and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, rolling his eyes before repeating, 'What happened to those dusters of yours? Someone try and keep 'em from growing?'

  
  


Again, Sam just stared for a few moments before simply saying, 'No.'

  
  


Silence settled between them, wary on Sam's side, and completely unreadable on Hunt's. Finally, apparently satisfied for some reason (or maybe he just didn't care), the other man gave a short nod. 'Make sure you don't fling yourself off high places then. I don't carry people, not even scrawny gits like you.'

  
  


**

  
  


And that was that. No more questions were asked. Except -

  
  


'Do you feel like you're gonna heave up?'

  
  


He'd been in an accident, after all, so Hunt had sent for a 'plonk' – a woman with brown curls and gentle eyes, part of the women's department, who had proceeded to twist his head around. Her name was Annie. She couldn't see his wings, or at least she didn't comment on them, but after Hunt's close scrutiny, Sam was wary of everyone. Nothing was what it seemed, and he was desperate to regain something resembling mental equilibrium.

  
  


However, there was something about Annie that helped him keep his cool. The way she talked to him, with a quiet no-nonsense attitude, kept him grounded, and at the end of the day, she even offered to drop him off at 'his' flat.

  
  


'I'm not mad. I'm _not_.'

  
  


Except, how could he be so sure? Annie didn't believe him when he told her about his accident in the future, but she didn't call the men in the white coats either, and Sam was immensely grateful for that. It probably helped that he didn't mention Gene Hunt's wings – or his own pair, for that matter. He didn't need to push his luck. And he didn't want to push Annie away, not when she had gone out of her way to help him.

  
  


**

  
  


Sam sat on his bed, staring at the television set, his mind buzzing with confusion. He'd not seen Hunt again after he'd left him 'in charge'. No one else Sam encountered owned wings, so he was half ready to believe he'd only imagined what had happened in Hunt's office... But his own wings tingled at the thought of that encounter, a faint feeling of nausea pooling in his stomach. He moved them until he was able to grab a hold of one of them, not unlike Hunt had done. The feathers rustled as he brushed his fingers across them, smoothing out a few creases. He'd never particularly bothered to 'groom' his wings, but suddenly, the urge was there – to take proper care of them.

  
  


Once again, he noticed how they didn't reflect light at all. There were no shadows, no highlights, nothing. When he was in his late teens, he'd taken to observing birds with black feathers like his own, had made note of how their coat turned shiny whenever they splashed themselves with water, or when the light caught them in a certain way. That never happened with Sam's wings – to the contrary, they even seemed to _absorb_ light. At one point, he had taken that as a sign that they were, in fact, not real at all, but then he had plucked a feather and that had hurt.

  
  


Suddenly, he was glad that Hunt hadn't deployed the same method of examination as Sam had back then.

  
  


With a groan, Sam let go of his wings and rested his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. None of this made any sense. Not the hospital sounds, not this case – the fact that he was expected to perform his job as though nothing had happened –, not the fact that Gene Hunt had a pair of bloody massive wings.

  
  


Sam shook his head, looked up sluggishly, his fingers dragging across his face. The fact that he had developed a headache really didn't help the situation. Maybe if he went to sleep, he'd wake up in his flat in 2006, and it would all have been one incredibly weird dream, including TV presenters who seemed to be talking about him.

  
  


**

Sam didn't wake up in his flat in 2006. He woke up in that flat in 1973, to a new day of backwards policing.

  
  


Policing.

  
  


Whatever else Sam might or might not be, he _was_ a policeman. Maya had told him that he was a crappy boyfriend, and Sam knew that he was unable to fly, but if there was one thing he was really good at, it was policing.

  
  


So Sam went back to the station. There was a case to solve, after all. Maybe that was the key to getting away from here – solve this murder, find the killer. Save Maya.

  
  


**

It wasn't that easy, of course. They found the killer, they arrested him before he could claim Dora as his next victim. And, in a bizarre twist, it was Sam who sealed his fate by throwing away the doctor's note he had discovered. He didn't know how to feel about that, had no idea if it would help his situation at all. But he had to try, didn't he? Anything to get back home. And now...

  
  


_The definitive step_. Sam didn't fancy throwing himself under a bus, but now that he was on the roof of the police station, his determination faded away quickly. For as long as he could remember, he'd been afraid of heights. Not in the way people usually are scared of high places, of the vertigo caused by looking down – it was a deep, existential fear. On the internet, he had read about birds that had had part of their wings amputated and as a result displayed massive panic attacks in response to being confronted with heights. It wasn't easy to admit, but Sam had had to deal with similar symptoms. He had done his best to suppress it through the years, of course, but it was difficult. There was a reason why his flats had always been on ground level.

  
  


He'd thought that the promise of being able to go home would have made this easy, but Sam was nowhere near the edge and found that he couldn't take a single step further towards it. _I want to go home_ , he thought, but his body wouldn't move.

  
  


It was Hunt who found him like this, much later. A faint sound, like wind gently rustling through leaves, made Sam turn his head, and he saw the DCI strolling towards him, wings spread slightly, as if to deliberately make the evening breeze stroke through the feathers.

  
  


'What's this about then?' he asked, lighting a cigarette.

  
  


Sam didn't answer, returning his gaze to stare towards the edge. It would just be a step... and another... and one more... step after step, right up to the laughably inadequate barrier...

  
  


'Oi. I asked you a question.'

  
  


Sam turned around, only to find that Hunt had moved all the way into his personal space again, standing far too close.

  
  


Suddenly, he realized that he didn't want to look at the edge anymore. It was much easier to concentrate on Hunt, made his heartbeat slow down a little and his throat less tight. Keeping his voice calm and controlled, Sam said, 'Enjoying the view.'

  
  


Hunt raised an eyebrow before saying, 'No, you're not. That's the look of a deer caught in the headlights of a bloody monster truck you've got there.'

  
  


Sam snorted. This wasn't the first time that Hunt seemed to look right through his defenses and into the core of his being. It was bloody unnerving, especially considering he barely knew the man. 'That a _hunch_ you've got?'

  
  


'No, just more experience than a spring chicken like you could ever have,' Hunt retorted, unperturbed by Sam's hostility. He bristled now, the words hitting a strange, overly sensitive spot, even distracting him from the anxiety that was still pulsing away inside him. Before he could act on it, though, Hunt continued, 'You fancy staying up here all night though, be my guest.'

  
  


Sam stared at him. 'What are you trying to say? _Guv_?'

  
  


Hunt took a drag from his cigarette. 'Stop being so bloody dramatic, Tyler. I don't know what it is that you've got up your jacksie, or what happened to your dusters, but at the end of the day, you're a detective, and you're my DI. I need my DI to be able to do his job.' He paused, and something about him... changed. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd say Hunt's expression _softened_. 'And if you want to give your wings a bit of a work out, do it somewhere that won't break every bone in your body if it goes wrong.'

  
  


This gave Sam pause, and he frowned, looking away, back towards the edge. They both remained silent for several seconds, until Sam turned his gaze back to Hunt. 'You thought I was going to jump?' Was he really that easy to read?

  
  


Hunt pulled his lips into a small pout. 'Don't know what you were gonna do. And I'm not your mam, so it's none of my business, but you don't seem like the sensible type. Better check than have to scrape your sorry remains off the tarmac.'

  
  


The morbidity of this statement should have offended him, Sam knew, but for some reason all it did was make him want to laugh. He shook his head. 'You say that, but you act an awful lot like a mother hen.'

  
  


Hunt's eyes narrowed dangerously, and for a moment Sam thought that there was going to be another punch-up, but then the larger man snorted, taking his cigarette and throwing it to the ground, stamping it out. 'Suit yourself.'

  
  


He made to turn around, to leave – and Sam said, 'Wait.'

  
  


Hunt turned back, raising a questioning eyebrow. Sam stared back at him. He didn't know why he had stopped Hunt. His eyes travelled up, settled on Hunt's wings – he had retracted them as the wind grew stronger, but they still looked impressive. And Hunt himself looked like owning a pair of wings was the most natural thing in the world. Sam found himself wondering whether he went to fly across Manchester regularly.

  
  


Sam focused on Hunt's face again. The words left his mouth before he could stop himself or thinking about them.

  
  


'What should I do, Guv?'

  
  


Hunt regarded him silently, his expression unreadable. Maybe he was trying to work out what Sam meant – good luck to him, because Sam himself didn't know either. After a few seconds, he shrugged and said, 'Could go down the pub.'

  
  


Sam hesitated, then nodded.

  
  


**

  
  


They ended up in the pub indeed. They ended up staying until Nelson had gone upstairs, trusting Sam to lock the door when they left.

  
  


'Give it up then,' Hunt suddenly said, entirely out of context. Sam looked up with raised eyebrows, having previously focused on what he had reason to believe was his fourth pint of bitter.

  
  


'You what?'

  
  


Hunt nodded at him, and it took Sam a moment to realize that he was gesturing at his wings, hanging down his back, slack as rags.

  
  


'Oh.' Sam shook his head and took a swig of his beer, grimacing afterwards. 'Told you. No story there. They just never grew.'

  
  


Hunt gave a non-committal grunt, evidently waiting for Sam to go on. And something about that _did_ make him want to continue to talk. 'I thought that was normal. You know – where – where I'm from, people don't have wings.'

  
  


Sam looked up to see that Hunt had raised both his eyebrows, visibly surprised. 'What, no wings in Hyde? Knew it was a ruddy miserable place, but that takes the cake.' He emptied his own pint before saying. 'That why your jaw dropped to the floor when you laid eyes on mine then?'

  
  


Sam simply nodded.

  
  


'Huh. Well, that explains a lot. Always knew they were magnificent, but you looked like you'd seen a ghost.'

  
  


It was odd – from what Sam had observed during the last two days, Hunt wasn't the type to talk about things, if his hands-on methods were anything to go by. Yet, as they sat here on their bar stools, it was as though he was a completely different man; still gruff and practical, blunt to the point of being rude, but at the same time, there was a sense of patience and fundamental understanding. If Sam didn't have such problems with the DCI's general attitude and worldview , he'd have found his presence soothing.

  
  


He realized he was staring at Hunt's wings once more. They were spread out comfortably, mirroring the man's relaxed posture. Sam had come to think of the yellowy tinge to them as nicotine-stains, and for some reason that thought amused him immensely. Without thinking, Sam reached out, but then stopped himself at the last moment, noticing the way Hunt was looking at him.

  
  


'Er. Mind if I – if I....?' He nodded at Hunt's wings a little helplessly, almost shyly. The thought that he wasn't the only human with wings attached to him still amazed him, and he suddenly had the increasing urge to make sure that what he was seeing was indeed real.

  
  


Hunt regarded him silently for another moment before giving a short nod. 'Go on then.'

  
  


Still somewhat hesitantly, Sam extended his hand – stopped himself, just a few inches away from the feathers – and then, finally, made contact. And was surprised by the warmth that radiated off the feathers, surprised by how soft and smooth they felt. How _strong_.

  
  


Hunt raised his wings towards Sam, making it easier for him to explore them. The coverts weren't as sturdy as they looked – they felt light and fluffy under Sam's fingers, and he could feel a tremor running through the wing as Sam stroked close to the ridge. He heard Hunt snort, and realized that most likely, he had found a ticklish spot. The thought made him smile.

  
  


Sam withdrew his hand, feeling oddly calm. 'This is amazing.'

  
  


Hunt raised his chin, a proud glint in his eyes. 'Most impressive pair in Manchester.'

  
  


Sam grinned, then asked before he could stop himself, 'Do they work? I mean, do you... fly?'

  
  


The other man answered without hesitation. 'Course I do! What's the point of it otherwise, eh?'

  
  


'What if people see you?'

  
  


'People don't see what they don't expect to see,' Hunt simply said, before adding, 'Doing it at night helps too.'

  
  


Sam nodded. That made sense. What a novelty, though – wings that actually carried their human owner... His own pair twitched, rising and spreading slightly, as though intent to show Sam that they weren't as useless as he always thought. But he knew better. He had tried, several times, when he was a child and in his early teens. After breaking a leg, he'd stopped.

  
  


He raised his pint and downed the rest of his beer. It was strange – he still felt horribly out of place. He still wanted to go home.

  
  


But knowing that he had finally found someone like him, someone who understood a part of his being that no one else had ever seen, made him feel a little more at ease. Maybe he'd finally find some answers to questions he never thought he would be able to ask at all. And for all his gruffness, and despite their differences, it seemed like Hunt – Gene – would be willing to help Sam out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet more wings. Scary things happen.

The days and weeks passed agonizingly slowly.

  
  


Every morning, Sam opened his eyes, hoping that he would magically wake up in a hospital bed instead of the dreary flat in 1973, with the bed that hurt his back so badly that he sometimes considered just sleeping in the armchair, or even on the floor. Every morning, he was disappointed.

  
  


The days weren't much better. When they were in company, Gene behaved as though their wings didn't exist – which was fair enough, because no one else could see them. Apart from Phyllis down at the front desk, who sported a pair of wings that made her look like a grumpy grey owl, Sam hadn't spotted any other winged individuals in the police force. In public, it was necessary to make as little a deal of it as possible.

  
  


This meant, however, that there was nothing else left that gave him and Gene any kind of connection. They fought nigh on constantly. While Sam acknowledged that his DCI had much more experience with the whole wing business, Sam _knew_ that he was a good detective – he had worked hard to become chief inspector at such a young age. He knew how to police, and these people lacked the finesse and efficiency in investigations he so appreciated in his team back home.

  
  


And Christ on a bike, Gene was _infuriating_ most of the time. Moody, alcoholic, nicotine-addicted, and the way he effortlessly broke every single convention of political correctness before the day was finished sometimes left Sam speechless. Sam had been aware of the fact that the 70s hadn't been as fun and games as nostalgia made them out to be, but Gene Hunt seemed to be the embodiment of everything wrong with that decade. They clashed and argued and struggled with each others' concepts and opinions on policing, and at the end of the day, somehow, cases got solved and criminals arrested (and given a hiding, more often than not).

  
  


Sam had never found work to be this stressful. If it hadn't been for Annie's calming influence, he probably would be in a constant state of exasperation. Annie simply made him feel _better_. He had noticed that whenever she came by his desk to chat with him, his wings settled into a more relaxed pose than they usually did around non-winged people. Sam was grateful for these little rays of sunshine, as he liked to think of his conversations with her. They were moments of reprieve, helping him forget his discomfort and longing to wake up from all of this.

  
  


He encountered several other winged humans as well. One of them, a hearing-impaired young man called Leonard Pitt, proved to be the key witness in a case that became rather personal for Sam. A result of that case was that he and Gene saw eye to eye more often. It seemed that for the two of them to reach common ground, they first needed to bloody each others' noses. Sam didn't relish the thought, especially not if it meant that he was starting to assimilate. He still wanted to go home more than anything else – granted, he would be the only human being with a pair of wings in the entire world again, but at least he would be _home_. It was an environment he knew how to navigate. Here, in 1973, there were pitfalls everywhere.

  
  


One of these pitfalls presented itself on a hot June morning. Strange dreams were something Sam had gotten used to here – nurses and doctors talking to him, dreams of the eerie girl in her red dress. But this time, he had dreamed of Ivanhoe. Sam was convinced that Ivanhoe had always been able to see his wings. Normally he would ignore them, but sometimes, he would paw at the feathers. And sometimes, when little Sam was curled up in bed, Ivanhoe would lie down behind him and lick across the coverts. It was one of the most comforting things Sam had ever experienced.

  
  


And now Ivanhoe seemed to have led him to his parents' current residence in 1973. Sam walked through the neighbourhood like he still was in a dream. Everything was familiar and yet it seemed disconcertingly unreal, a feeling that was reinforced by the heavy silence and the heat.

  
  


The spell was broken when Sam heard the sounds of a scuffle – grunts, punches. He snapped into action. Off duty or not, he was a police officer, and he would have no law-breaking on his watch; especially not this close to what was once his home.

  
  


**

  
  


What should have been a simple case of bodily assault quickly spiralled out of control. Upon hearing about the arrest, Gene pulled Sam aside, filling him in on exactly who Charlie Edwards worked for: a local businessman by the name of Stephen Warren, who enjoyed 'cordial relationships with the police'.

  
  


'He's bent,' Sam said, struggling to accept the implications.

  
  


'Bent as a fishhook,' Gene confirmed, matter-of-factly. Sam could feel his heart hammering away in his chest. Checks and balances. Institutionalized corruption, in other words.

  
  


**

  
  


Charlie Edwards, already callous when Sam had arrested him, was downright smug when he picked up his belongings. Seeing him leave the station with that smug grin on his face was both humiliating and infuriating. Gene blocked every attempt Sam made to talk about it. The day passed in a tense atmosphere – although, Gene's invitation to a 'quiet little pub' did give Sam some hope that he would still be able to address this whole Warren business. He might even have a better chance to get through to Gene than if he confronted him in front of the entire team.

  
  


However, Sam's hopes proved to be in vain. The Cortina screeched to a halt in front of a club, 'The Warren' written in neon letters above the crowded entrance.

  
  


'What're we doing here?'

  
  


'Furthering your education so you don't start a war.'

  
  


Sam's feathers bristled as anger rose inside him. 'I want nothing to do with it.'

  
  


Gene gave him a strangle look then; his own wings were drawn tightly to his back, folded so thoroughly that they seemed glued together. 'You _are_ to do with it.'

  
  


When they entered the club, Gene immediately ushered him over to an upstairs area, but even as they hurried through the crowd Sam was taken aback by how many off-duty police officers he spotted. Even Annie was there, stopping him to chat for a few seconds. However, Sam couldn't concentrate on her. His attention was being drawn to several large and smaller cages, prominently placed throughout the dance hall. Inside them, girls were dancing, further stimulating the people around them.

  
  


At first, Sam thought that the wings on their backs were fake – the shape was all off, and they weren't as large as Gene's or Phyllis'. Then, as one of the girls turned her back to him, Sam realized his mistake. The wings were real, no doubt about it, considering the way they swayed in time with the music.

  
  


What had made them look odd was the fact that they were all pinioned. They still looked pretty and groomed, some of them even sprinkled with glitter (for whose benefit, Sam couldn't tell – there were no other winged people in the room), but they were mutilated without a doubt. Sam felt sick as Gene pulled him away from Annie, up the stairs. When they reached the door, he tapped his DCI's shoulder.

  
  


'Those girls-'

  
  


Gene cut him off. 'Don't say anything. What he does is his business, not ours. We're here because you need to apologize, and nothing more than that, got it?'

  
  


Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'I'm not--'

  
  


But Gene had already pushed open the heavy double door and pulled him inside.

  
  


Sam yanked his arm free of Gene's grasp, opening his mouth – and stopped, his eyes widening. They had entered a room draped with dark red velvet and lit by lights of the same colour, seeming to go on forever; even so, it felt claustrophobic. At the end of it stood a large desk, and behind that desk stood a man who at first glance reminded Sam of a vulture, perching and waiting for its prey to move, ready to _strike_. His black wings rose up high behind his back, looking imposing and powerful even half folded. No doubt this was Stephen Warren.

  
  


The man himself – beady eyes, curly hair – wasn't someone who under normal circumstances would have intimidated Sam, but there was something about his wings that made Sam want to shrink back, to turn around and leave. His wings bristled, and to Sam's horror that elicited a reaction from Warren; he raised his chin slightly, eyes glinting as though he had just seen something extra delicious.

  
  


Next to him, Gene quietly cleared his throat, and Sam felt a gentle nudge at his back. At the same time, Warren's voice drifted towards them, smooth and yet carrying well through the room.

  
  


'Ah, Mr Hunt. Do come closer.'

  
  


Sam forced himself to walk. Gene didn't look at him, but he remained by his side as they both stepped up to the table, while Warren poured whiskey into three tumblers.

  
  


'So this is the Boy Wonder?' Warren said, glancing up and at Sam, who managed not to flinch. Up close, the bulk of Warren's wings was even more threatening; Sam thought he could see them move gently, like some great beast breathing in and out. It was difficult not to stare at them, and when Sam concentrated on Warren's face, he saw amusement and... something else that he couldn't identify, but made his skin crawl and his feathers bristle visibly. However, realizing that the other man wasn't taking him seriously made Sam stand up straight, his discomfort starting to make way for irritation. Wings or not, this man was a criminal, possibly even the head of a syndicate.

  
  


He still wasn't going to apologize.

  
  


'Just doing my job,' he said, somewhat stiffly. Warren looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly, a small smile playing around his lips.

  
  


'A curious little bird you've caught yourself there, Gene' he said, addressing the DCI, whose expression remained unreadable as he gave a non-committal grunt. Sam was used to Gene being less than supportive of him, and it didn't bother him usually, but in this situation he couldn't help but feel a pang of betrayal. He'd already admitted to Sam that he took the odd backhander, but somehow, Sam had assumed that Warren and Gene were on more equal footing.

  
  


Right here, right now, Stephen Warren clearly held the higher position. It made Sam feel unsafe, exposed, especially with how _hungry_ the other man looked, his gaze returning to Sam time and time again.

  
  


'I heard you had an unfortunate encounter with one of my employees,' the man continued, his tone conversational as he offered Gene a drink, who took it without a word.

  
  


Thinking about Charlie Edwards' arrogance, his slimy grin, Sam's expression hardened, and he let that anger strengthen his voice. 'I saw a man assaulting another man, and I did my job.'

  
  


Gene finally spoke then, but his voice sounded unusually apologetic. 'He's very big on doing his job.'

  
  


Warren's eyes never left Sam's. 'I'm glad to hear it.'

  
  


**

  
  


It was Edwards who apologized, in the end. Sam ended up reluctantly dancing with one of the pinioned girls – she seemed happy enough, but looking at her wings left Sam feeling faintly ill. He threw away the cigar as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

  
  


Later that evening, Gene took Sam down to the canal, which wasn't too far away from The Warren. The cool evening air did wonders to clear his mind a little, after the noise and crowd of the club, and after the way Warren hadn't let Sam out of his sight until the moment the heavy leather doors had closed behind him and the two girls who had all but dragged him away.

  
  


'Those girls had their wings cut down.' Sam said, glancing over at Gene to see how he would react.

  
  


Gene didn't react at all. He looked straight ahead, his expression as unreadable as ever.

  
  


Sam stopped in his tracks, crossing his arms. Gene still walked a good few yards ahead before coming to a halt as well and turning around, annoyance clear in his motions.

  
  


' _What_?'

  
  


Sam raised his chin slightly, his jaw tense with anger. 'Doesn't it bother you? Even one bit?'

  
  


Gene looked at him in a way that suggested he didn't (or rather, pretended not to) know what Sam was talking about, which irritated him even more. Playing dumb in a situation like this...

  
  


'What happened to being a deputy to the law? Eh?' Sam nodded back in the direction they had come from. 'There's a man back there who lives off bribery and taking advantage of young women, who _cuts_ their wings--'

  
  


Gene interjected, his voice ringing out over the stagnant water of the canal, 'You can get off your high Hyde horse right now, Sam. Whatever goes on in that club of his isn't our business, and whatever those girls agreed to is their bloody responsibility. Bloody hell we're not supposed to be nannies!'

  
  


Somehow, they had once more ended up in each others' personal space; this time, it had been Sam who had crossed over to stand right in front of Gene, his wings bristling and puffing up.

  
  


'No, we're supposed to be the good guys! We're supposed to be protecting people who need our help and not tolerate scumbags like Warren!'

  
  


'You're talking about things you don't understand,' Gene spat, but it struck Sam as strangely put-on. He couldn't explain that feeling to himself, until he noticed something: Usually, during an exchange like this, Gene's wings would spread out to their full span, making Sam feel small and insignificant. Right now, however, they were very nearly flattened out against the ground. It was almost as if Gene was subconsciously admitting if not defeat, then the fact that he wasn't comfortable with this whole affair...

  
  


And indeed, as soon as Gene realized what Sam was looking at, he turned around abruptly, shaking out his wings and walking on.

  
  


'Get a move on. I want to be done with this before tomorrow morning.'

  
  


Sam remained where he was, staring at his DCI's back. He knew what he had seen. Something was bothering Gene about this, bothering him deeply. It was almost as if he wasn't as content with the arrangement between the police force and Warren as he pretended to be.

  
  


But Sam also knew that he wouldn't get anything out of him yet. However, he didn't plan on letting that stop him from finding out.

  
  


**

  
  


Later that night, in the pub, Sam found a wad of money in his pocket. Deeply disturbed, Sam had tried to get rid of it, but Gene had stopped him from doing so, tried to convince him that it was the most normal thing and Sam should take it and shut up.

  
  


But Sam couldn't. When everyone else had left, he was still sitting by the bar, staring at the rolled up notes. First the sight of those girls, their wings mutilated, and now this... it was enough to make Sam feel physically ill. He had become somewhat comfortable with his existence in 1973, but now it all felt so _wrong_ again. He didn't belong here, and this place was bad for him. He had become a police officer to do the right thing, to protect people in need... And yet here he was, reluctantly but obediently stuffing the money into his pocket before leaving the pub, Nelson switching off the lights behind him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:
> 
> Mention of canonical rape

The next day, Sam met Ruth Tyler – his mother.

  
  


It was a sobering encounter. The wonder of seeing his mother at this age, being able to talk to her, quickly gave way to mortification when he tried to fix the bad spot she'd found herself in. All he had wanted to do was put Warren's money to some good use, at least, but that backfired spectacularly.

  
  


However, he now had all the more reason to bring down Warren, knowing that his mother's landlord was on the bastard's payroll. It was the last straw. Furious, he made his way to the club.

  
  


Warren didn't even seem surprised as Sam stalked up to the table.

  
  


'Mr Tyler. What a pleasure.' His wings rose and unfolded slightly as he got up from his chair. Sam slammed the wad of money down on the polished wood.

  
  


'What's this?'

  
  


'It's yours.' Sam spat, anger thrumming through him.

  
  


'Really? Where did you find it?'

  
  


' _In my pocket_.'

  
Warren smiled. 'Can't be mine then. Must be yours.'

  
  


Sam's wings unfolded entirely, and for the first time in his life, he felt like it had some kind of positive effect, on himself at least. He felt stronger, no longer cowed by the bulk of Warren's wings as he growled, 'I don't know what kind of deals you might have with other officers, but you have no deal with me.'

  
  


'Is that so?' Warren raised an eyebrow, although Sam could see tension building up through the joints of his wings.

  
  


He raised his chin, feeding off the sensation of being on equal footing. 'And I'm gonna go out of my way to make life as difficult for you as possible.'

  
  


Warren was no longer smiling, though there was a strange glint in his eyes. 'So you say, Mr Tyler.'

  
  


Before he left, Sam turned around one last time. 'I'll be watching you.'

  
  


**

  
  


'I'm frightened.'

  
  


Sam was sat in Lost and Found, opposite Joni Newton. He'd recognized her as the girl he'd danced with, that first night in the club. Her wings, or what was left of them, were drawn up tight to her body, shivering faintly.

  
  


And God, how Sam wanted to help her. Moreover with someone breaking ranks like this, it could be his chance to bring Warren down once and for all. But he needed actual, physical evidence. He told Joni as much, but she refused. All she wanted was to get out of town, with Sam's help.

  
  


'Let me stay with you tonight.'

  
  


Sam couldn't help but laugh at this – if he was going to bring down a corrupt bastard like Warren he had to play this by the book. Taking in detainees for the night in his own flat was anything but.

  
  


It was when she made it clear that most officers at the station were corrupt that Sam hesitated, reconsidered. He knew what he had seen. He knew how Gene had reacted (although he also remembered how Gene had said one thing, while his wings had indicated an underlying reluctance to accept things as they were).

  
  


_'We're supposed to be the good guys! We're supposed to be protecting people who need our help and not tolerate scumbags like Warren!'_

  
  


Sam sighed and focused on Joni again. By the book or not, he couldn't just ignore her fears, not after he had taken the moral high ground with Gene. 'Get your coat.'

  
  


**

  
  


'You know,' Joni said, chewing on the chili-glazed grilled salmon Sam had whipped up for the two of them, 'I've been wondering. What happened to your wings?'

  
  


Sam stalled for only a moment before answering, trying to sound nonchalant. 'Nothing. Always been like that.' He looked up, nodding at her back. 'What about you?'

  
  


Joni stopped eating and set down her fork. 'Do you really have to ask?'

 

'I'd like to hear it from you,' Sam said, keeping his voice calm. He wasn't out to attack Joni, but anything she could give him on Warren was a start... although, he knew that whatever role Warren had played in pinioning the girl's wings, it was nothing that would stick in court.

 

Still. He felt that he needed to know. Not only did he want to show Joni that he genuinely cared, but there was something else... something he couldn't explain to himself. Maybe it was the fact that, with her mutilated wings, the two of them almost had something in common.

 

She remained silent for a few moments before suddenly picking up her fork again, attacking her portion with seemingly renewed hunger. 'You know, this really is delicious. Galloping Gourmet.'

 

'Joni.'

 

She exhaled explosively, finally looking up at Sam.

 

'There is no story. It was part of the contract.'

 

 _Contract_? Sam sat up a little straighter, unable to keep the surprise off his face. He'd assumed that Warren screwed the girls over, cut their wings against their will... But they actually agreed to it? He couldn't imagine the circumstances they would have to be in to voluntarily say 'yes' to such a drastic violation.

 

He tried to gently coax Joni to go on, but she refused to say anything else. She did, however, elaborate on the kinds of threats Warren had made against her. And that alone was enough to make Sam's blood boil. What he was doing wasn't exactly 'by the book'-procedure, but hell, he wanted to help Joni. Evidence or no evidence, he couldn't just leave her to her fate. He'd made the right decision to take her in for the night.

 

**

 

They had both settled down to sleep – her in the bed, him in the arm chair – and the conversation had just about petered out when Joni glanced up and asked, 'Do you wanna come in with me?'

 

Sam had seen the question coming. He merely looked at her, considering how to make her understand that he wasn't from the same planet as the other men she'd had to deal with in her line of work, or indeed anywhere she went. In the end, he settled on, 'I'm a police officer. And you're in my care.'

 

She looked at him strangely. 'Wouldn't bother the others.'

 

'I'm not the others.'

 

He remained silent for a little while, watched Joni as she lowered her gaze with a little huff, as if to say 'No kidding.' It made him realize that she had been serious about her offer, and that anyone else she knew would have taken her up on it without a second thought. And for some reason, it was only then that he fully began to understand what kind of world she occupied. How cruel it all was.

 

Out of nowhere, even surprising himself a little, Sam began to talk.

 

'Where... where I'm from, people don't have wings. I was the only one, and no one ever knew. And I loved them. I thought... I thought that one day, I'd be able to go anywhere I wanted. Find my dad. The world was gonna be at my feet, and I'd be  _ free _ .'

 

Sam snorted softly, at his own naivety.

 

'It never happened. They just... didn't grow.' He looked at Joni, meeting her eyes. 'I don't have to tell you what it feels like. Knowing you have these... things on your back. Knowing they won't carry you. Feeling nervous about every flight of stairs because if you fall, you can't catch yourself.'

 

He thought he saw the corner of Joni's mouth twitch, but she didn't say anything.

 

'I can't imagine what it must be like for you. I was never able to fly, and I never will be. But...' Sam sighed. 'It's a beautiful, wonderful life, Joni. Too beautiful to waste dancing in a rusty cage for a man like Warren.'

 

Joni nodded. Sam thought he could see her eyes glimmering in the dark. 'I know.' A beat, then, 'Sam?'

 

'Mh?'

 

'I'm sorry. For... for all the trouble.'

 

Sam gave a faint nod, suddenly feeling tired and spent. 'Go to sleep.'

 

**

 

The next morning, Sam woke up alone, naked and handcuffed to his bed. Joni was gone.

 

**

 

A honey trap. Of course. Warren never was going to hurt Joni, let alone rape her, what with being gay 'as a bloody Christmas tree', as Gene so helpfully supplied.

 

'You're not the first, and you won't be the last.'

 

What stung more than the humiliation of having been found not only by Gene but also Annie, was the utter betrayal. Sam had  _ believed _ Joni. He thought he'd gotten through to her. The bitterness clawed at him for the rest of the day just as relentlessly as the headache battered his brain. She'd drugged him, and then she had... well, raped him. Sam didn't know whether it was that alone, or the fact that he had told her things he hadn't told anyone else, that made him feel all the worse.

 

He confronted her in the club, although he got little satisfaction out of it. She was cold and stand-offish. Her wings gave no indication of remorse either.

 

Sam was on his way out when he heard voices from the upstairs area. Ducking behind the staircase, he saw Gene and Warren walking down the stairs.

 

'He had it coming to him.' Warren sounded dismissive, faintly annoyed.

 

Gene's response, however – the heat of it – surprised Sam. 'You do not humiliate my officers!'

 

'If you can't keep your people in line, I'll do it for you.'

 

'I'm the Sheriff, Warren, don't you ever forget it.'

 

Sam chanced a glance just as Warren turned around to face Gene, his wings spreading wide with one rustling burst, stabbing a finger in Gene's direction. 'No, no, Mr Hunt! You're a  _ bent _ sheriff! Don't you ever forget  _ that _ !'

 

Gene's wings were spread as well, though it was a clearly defensive posture, angled to form a shield against Warren. There was a tense moment of silence before he spun around and walked away, leaving Gene standing there on his own. A few seconds later, the DCI as well turned and stormed out of the club, leaving Sam on his own to contemplate what he had just seen.

 

**

 

That same evening, Nelson led Sam into the backyard of the pub, saying he had a visitor.

 

It was Joni.

 

Sam's wings bristled at the sight of her, and he stopped with several yards between them.

 

'Delivering the photos yourself? Classy.'

 

Joni told him there were no photographs, before she proceeded to burn the negatives.

 

Then, she told him about her parents. About Warren taking over their business by claiming her father was corrupt. About how her father became ill and died as a result. About how Warren had tricked her – all of the girls – into having their wings pinioned, under the pretense of them only getting in the way of their movements when they danced. That if they refused, he would cut them off all the way. They had no choice.

 

Sam didn't want to believe her – she'd lied to him before, she'd set him up. She had forced sex on him, entirely without his consent. He did not want to give her the benefit of the doubt.

 

And yet. Joni seemed honest. Still unwilling to testify, but she admitted that she'd been lying to herself, and that she was finished with it. That she wanted it to be a beautiful life. That she was going to leave town with her mother.

 

'Where are you gonna go?'

 

'I don't know.' She smiled weakly. 'I hear Mexico is nice.'

 

Sam offered to accompany them to the airport, make sure they got there safely, but Joni declined. 'I've gotten you into enough trouble already. We'll be fine. But... thank you, Sam. You're a nice copper.' And she smiled again, properly this time. Sam couldn't help but smile back.

 

**

 

Sam saw Joni again later that night, when Chris pulled back the sheet covering a body they'd fished out of the canal. Her throat had been slit, and it didn't take much to imagine the bloody stumps that were left of her wings. There was a single white feather in her mouth. Sam could only stare at her, the ugly gash across her throat. It was as though the ground was being pulled away from under his feet, and he was falling, falling –

 

'He might as well have slit her throat himself.' Ray muttered.

 

Sam didn't react at first, but then he raised his head slowly. 'What did you say?'

 

Sam ended up turning his anger on Ray.

 

**

 

It was dusk when Gene handed a bottle of whisky to Sam, the both of them leaning against the railings overlooking Oxford Road. He told Sam how he'd first discovered the extent of corruption at the station. Back then, Gene had stood up for his principles and blown the whistle on his superior officer, who as a result killed himself. A month later he had taken his first backhander.

 

'How did that make you feel?'

 

'Like shit.' Gene frowned, taking a swig of whisky when Sam held out the bottle to him again. 'And them girls. Makes you ill just looking at them, don't it. He does it for his own sick benefit. The power trip. Gets off on seeing them dancing in their cages, just for him, like the pretty little birds they are.'

 

Gene hadn't been looking at him this whole time, but Sam didn't let him out of his sight.

 

'How does it make you feel now?'

 

Gene tilted his head to the side a little. 'I try not to think about it. Do the best I can – look after my men and the people in my city.'

 

Sam pressed on. 'But when you do think about it... how does it make you feel?'

 

Gene's wings shook slightly. 'Like there's an animal eating away at me insides.'

 

'Feel like doing something about it?'

 

Finally, Gene looked at him. His wings rustled, rose. 'Thought you'd never ask.'

 

**

 

Getting the information they needed from Edwards was disgustingly easy. So was arresting Warren. In the light of day, and having been caught with his trousers down (literally), he didn't seem so imposing. His wings spread threateningly, but this time, Gene retaliated without hesitation. To Sam, none of it made a difference. He slapped on the handcuffs even as Warren spouted threats against them. They both led him down the stairs, past his bouncers and straight through a crowd of his own patrons. A perfect victory.

 

**

 

They drank until late that night, long after everyone else had grown tired of celebrating their freedom.

 

'There's no way you can police a modern city without a bit of give and take,' Gene said, downing another whisky chaser.

 

'Checks and balances?' Sam shook his head. 'It can't work like that. Every copper has to be whiter than white, or the whole thing falls apart.'

 

For some reason, Sam found his gaze being drawn to Gene's wings. The latter noticed, and gave Sam a pout. 'Oi, those don't make me an angel, you know. Never believed in those fellas.'

 

Sam couldn't help but chuckle. 'The thought never occurred to me, trust me.'

 

'Good. I have a reputation to uphold.'

 

Gene looked at the telly for a moment, where the national anthem was still playing. Sam, smiling to himself, finished his own drink. When Gene spoke next, his voice was quieter than usual, and he turned his head to look directly at Sam. His wings were relaxed, and Sam could feel the light touch of feathers brushing against his back, across his own pair of wings.

 

'You did well, Sam. Every officer will be walking a little bit taller tomorrow because of you.'

 

They clinked their glasses together.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vic Tyler thing happens.

Slowly, and without even really noticing, Sam slipped into a routine. Not the most peaceful one – nothing was ever peaceful when it came to CID – but it kept him going. However, that didn't stop Sam from wanting to go home.

 

Every time he heard his mum talking to him – to the 'him' who was lying in a hospital bed in 2006 – he ached to see her again. Whenever he had to try and make a proper meal in the kitchenette of his flat, he longed to be back in his actual flat, with the gorgeous stainless steel kitchen he'd commissioned recently, where everything had its place. And he'd never thought that he would ever come to miss the coffee dispensed from vending machine in CID. _His_ CID, that is.

 

Still – it wasn't all bad, he had to admit. Sam found himself slowly becoming a little more comfortable with sitting in the Railway Arms, even if it meant having to listen to Ray's pearls of dubious wisdom, let alone Gene's overbearing manner. Work still was a tug-of-war every step along the way, though. Sam kept pushing, insisting on using his own methods. He knew they were more effective, after all.

 

But that peace couldn't last for long. They had just found the murderer in a case that had threatened to cause Manchester City and United supporters to clash, and Sam considered the day over, beginning to walk home through the stream of football fans headed the opposite way.

 

That was when he heard the voice, so familiar.

 

'Looking forward to the match, Sam?'

 

A jolt ran through him as he spun around – and came face to face with himself. Four years old, wearing a little beanie, staring up at him. And then a brush of feathers against his arm.

 

Sam blinked. They were gone. His four-year-old self and... his father. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. Sam craned his neck, balanced on his tiptoes in order to try and catch sight of them again, but it was no use, there were too many people. His heart beating hard in his chest, he turned around again and walked away as if in a trance.

 

His dad. Sam's brain was whirring madly. It was around this time, now, that Vic Tyler had disappeared from their lives. And it was at this age that Sam had first become properly aware of his own wings.

 

But the thing was – Sam didn't remember his dad having wings. To be fair, he had no clear recollection of him at all, really, but surely he would have remembered something like that? Surely...

 

**

 

During the next few days and weeks, the dream he sometimes had about walking through the woods as a child, chasing after someone, became more intense. He could see something (some _one_?) in red running through the foliage ahead of him, but everything was blurry, and he always woke up before he could get a clear look at anything around him. Now, his subconscious added another element – a scream, sounding strangely distant and muffled. Sam woke up with his heart racing, gasping like he'd just run a marathon.

 

Sam rolled over with a frustrated groan, dragging his hand down his face. What was his brain trying to tell him? That Santa wasn't real and he should stop trying to chase after him? Well, tough luck, Sam had stopped believing in Santa after the third time he didn't bring back his dad. Nothing to salvage there.

 

Realizing that he was starting to slide into mad mental rambling, Sam heaved himself up and out of bed with a sigh. If he wasn't going to sleep, he could at least spend the time doing something useful. Like going through some of the unsolved cases he had found in the Collator's. Even if none of this was real, it was a good exercise to put his brain through nonetheless. At least it would give Maya less of a reason to force him to stay away from work, once he woke up again. He'd be able to show her that his mind was no worse off than it had been before the accident.

 

Sam gave another quiet sigh as he settled into his armchair. _Don't be an idiot, Sam_. All of this was getting to him more than he would have liked it to.

 

**

 

The hostage situation at the Gazette showed Sam just how badly this place was getting under his skin. When he knelt there, the clock counting down the seconds until 2:00 PM, the gun mere inches from his right temple...

 

When he saw the tears in Annie's eyes, the fire of absolute rage in Gene's...

 

When he felt his own face grown wet with tears and sweat, when he felt the beat of his heart hammering against his ribs, felt his knees aching, his palms sweaty...

 

It all felt real. He was going to die, the victim of a frustrated, desperate madman.

  
The clock was ticking too loudly.

 

'Two o'clock,' whispered Cole, as if to spur himself on, gather up the courage to go through with his threat.

 

Sam screwed his eyes shut. There was no beeping, no voices from the hospital.

 

There was, however, whistling.

 

_'And I didn't turn around... 'cause I wanted to savour that moment.'_

 

Sam heard his dad's voice. Right behind him. He was _there_.

 

Sam couldn't help it, he broke into a smile, laughed. There were worse things to hear on the brink of death, worse things to realize – having found his long-lost father in the unlikeliest of places.

 

**

 

Of course, in the end Sam didn't die. There was a hot moment of utter dread when he had thought that Gene had been shot himself, but that turned out to be a false alarm, thank God.

 

The celebrations at the Railway Arms had still been in full swing when Sam had finally ducked out and made his way back to the station. In the cold evening air, his thoughts kept returning to that moment – Gene's choked-off yell as he went down in a flurry of feathers. The moment when Sam's stomach had plunged, and fear had clutched at his heart.

 

Why did he care so much?

 

Sam shook his head, kept walking. He nodded in Phyllis' direction as he entered the building and quickly bounded up the stairs. He needed to move, use this nervous energy on _something_. He reached the office (still a tip from the party that had taken place the night before), stood in the middle of it for a few seconds, trying to decide where to go next. He knew there were no files on his own desk... Sam's eyes trailed over to Gene's office.

 

Even having been deflected by that hip flask, the bullet must have done considerable damage to Gene's chest. Sam had experienced being shot while wearing a bulletproof vest a couple of times during his tenure as a PC, and he vividly remembered the painful bruises he had carried for over a week after each incident. And yet, he had only seen Gene wince once while they had been at the pub. Either the man had skin like an elephant, or he was more adept at hiding his problems than Sam had ever thought.

 

Whatever the case, Sam was definitely thinking about it too much. Deliberately not looking at Gene's office again, he made to walk back out of CID, heading for the Collator's – and stumbled back with a sharp intake of breath. Gene had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, standing in front of Sam, looking down at him with his eyebrows raised.

 

'Jesus.'

 

'Nope, more magnificent than that.' Gene looked incredibly pleased with himself. Sam concluded that he must be quite drunk.

 

'If you say so,' he muttered, not quite able to hide a smile, but when he tried to squeeze past Gene, he felt a strong hand latch onto his arm.

 

'Shouldn't you be down at the pub celebrating?'

 

'Could ask you the same question,' Sam retorted, making a lame effort at trying to tug free from Gene's grasp.

 

'Have to look after my team, don't I.' Gene's lips twitched as well before he grew serious. Neither of them said a word as they stared at each other, and Sam couldn't shake the feeling that the DCI was... assessing him, in some way.

 

'What?' Sam finally asked, the silence having grown tense. He tried to give his voice an unaffected tone, but didn't quite succeed. Gene's gaze was unnerving him. Gene's grip hadn't let up yet.

 

Gene said nothing, but he did let go after another few seconds, and the tension dissipated. 'Nothing. Just needed to make sure you hadn't cracked completely.'

 

Sam blinked. 'You what?'

 

Gene shrugged with an air of nonchalance that seemed a little fake. 'Haven't seen a lot of men laugh as they were about to have their head blown to smithereens.'

 

Ah. Sam could feel heat rise to his cheeks. He took a slow step back, resisting the temptation to start fiddling with his jacket. 'You're one to talk,' he managed to say without stammering. 'You should be getting checked over in hospital.'

 

It was Gene's turn to stare at him in confusion. 'What? What for?'

 

Sam nodded at his torso. 'That must be hurting.'

 

'Eh? Nahh.' Gene puffed out his chest as if to demonstrate that nothing was wrong with it, his feathers rustling with the movement. 'Made of tough stuff, me.'

 

Something about the gesture struck Sam as particularly comical, making him smile openly. 'Are you.' And before he could think about it, he reached out and gently poked at Gene's chest.

 

He regretted it instantly when Gene flinched and gave a grunt of discomfort, bending over slightly. Shit, so he'd been right... Gene had just been putting on a brave face during the last few hours.

 

'Hey.' Sam put his hand on Gene's shoulder, trying to give him some support. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to...'

 

To Sam's surprise, Gene didn't attempt to shrug off his hand. 'Does sting a little,' he muttered, grimacing.

 

'You sure you don't want a doctor looking at that? Or Annie?'

 

Gene snorted. 'God, no. Stop being a girl about it, I'll be right as rain by tomorrow.'

 

'You should at least put some ice on it.' Sam's hand slid off Gene's shoulder, but he remained where he was, standing close enough to Gene that their wings were once again touching. It felt intimate in a strange way – not the same as when Sam had a quiet moment with Annie, but very comforting.

 

'Hm. Frozen chicken?'

 

Sam chuckled. 'Sure.'

 

In the end, Sam left without files, but with two more tumblers of whisky in his system and a sense of... trust. Budding partnership. Fragile, yes, but undeniably there.

 

**

 

It was the case of Billy Kemble, with his mousy brown wings and an unfortunate tendency to flash his bits and bobs at innocent people, that broke this fragile bond of trust – at least from Sam's point of view.

 

That night, Sam couldn't sleep at all. Gene thought of him as expendable. He could go on about trust all he wanted, but if he really trusted Sam, he would have just let him investigate in the first place, wouldn't he? Not threaten to kick seven types of shit out of him if he set foot into the station again. Even with his backwards way of thinking, Gene wouldn't have handled it like... like _this_. If he trusted Sam, he'd have been straightforward with him, like he always was when they talked about wings.

 

But this was work, wasn't it. And it seemed like Gene would always choose his team over his DI. That realization shouldn't hurt as much as it did. Sam's fingers dug into his pillow. It shouldn't hurt like this. He didn't even want to be here. He wanted to wake up. He'd thought he was going to, but Rathbone had crushed that hope. Sam was, once again, back to square one, feeling like he'd landed on a different planet instead of a different time.

 

**

 

And then he ran into his father. In a dingy hotel in Victoria Park, when they were expecting to find one of the Morton brothers, instead they found this man – long, dark hair, slate-grey wings drawn tightly to his back, staring incredulously as Gene barged in and proceeded to arrest him.

 

Sam stared back, just as incredulous, and the word escaped him before he could stop himself.

 

'Dad.'

 

Everyone turned to stare at him.

 

'I – I mean... damn!'

 

**

 

To say that Sam was confused would be an understatement. He was properly torn up – trying to understand why his father had wound up in a place where they had expected to find dangerous criminals. There had to be some kind of innocent explanation for it – some kind of misunderstanding. Then there was the fact that, well, this was Vic Tyler. His _dad_. Sam hadn't seen him for decades, and now there he was, smiling his typical slightly mischievous smile, entertaining Chris with simple card tricks. The sight alone helped ease the turmoil of Sam's emotions. He had to admit, though, the sight of wings on Vic's back added a whole different level to Sam's inner conflict. Sure, he had usually drawn his dad with wings when he was a boy, but later on, Sam had always assumed that that had been a product of his childish dreams and fantasies.

 

He didn't know what it meant, that the wings now appeared to be real. Sam found himself trying to push those questions away, as he sent Chris away and sat down opposite Vic, a little lost for words and smiling nervously. He needed to concentrate on what was important right now – find proof that his father had simply been caught in all of this by accident.

 

Vic's eyes widened slightly at the sight of Sam, and he leaned forward somewhat excitedly.

 

'Oh my godfathers – so I wasn't wrong!'

 

Sam blinked, taken aback. '… excuse me?'

 

'Them there!' Vic gestured towards Sam's wings, but lowered his voice. 'They look just like my little boy's!'

 

Sam froze, unable to tell whether it was excitement, bewilderment or inexplicable dread sending a sudden tingling sensation through his chest.

 

'….oh?' Sam managed, hoping that he was only imagining the crack in his voice.

 

'Yeah, same size an' all!' He'd been excited before, but now Vic's expression changed to one of concern. 'What happened to yours, then?'

 

Sam opened his mouth, but before he could think of something to say, Gene made his entrance, treating Vic with all the respect he usually reserved for suspects: none at all.

 

He didn't understand what was going on, but Sam _did_ understand that he needed to keep his father out of harm's way. It was Sam's turn to protect him.

 

**

 

The next hours were a blur. Sam met his mother again, he and Gene continued to investigate the case, and Sam did everything he could to protect his dad – and spend more time with him. God, how he wanted to prolong every second he spent in Vic's presence. There was so much he wanted to say, to ask, even though he knew that was impossible. Instead, he did his best to keep his dad at ease, to let him know that he and his family were safe. Because surely, all of this had to be a mistake – Vic had simply fallen in with the wrong crowd on accident, and couldn't easily escape. Sam was determined to help.

 

**

 

Determination turned to obsession. Sam's mind kept turning the situation over and over, the meaning of it, the consequences. And he began to realize – maybe this was why he was here, in 1973. Maybe this was his chance to mend everything that had gone wrong from the moment his dad left. Now was the time when it was going to happen... So maybe Sam needed to make sure it didn't. Maybe he had the power to change his personal history.

 

Gene made attempts to talk to Sam, to make him see his version of events, but Sam didn't have time for distractions like that. There was no way that his father was associated with the Morton brothers by anything other than bad luck. Sam refused to even entertain the possibility.

 

Until he followed Vic into the woods.

 

**

 

'Where are you?'

 

He remembered this. Running through the forest, looking down at his shoes. Pushing twigs aside.

 

'Dad!'

 

He was whispering, like he had done before.

 

Then--

 

'Can you hear me, sir?'

 

Ahead of him, a swatch of red...

 

The woman in red.

 

_Annie_.

 

Sam was frozen in place, could only look on as Vic stepped out of the woods, confronting Annie. He had a gun, and the look on his face... Sam hadn't seen that kind of suspicion, that expression of _hatred_ on his face before.

 

… or had he?

 

Vic punched Annie.

 

And it all came back to Sam. The screams, the woman falling down, kicking, kicking, his father's face, _blood_ \--

 

Sam rushed forward. ' _Wait_! Vic!'

 

**

 

Turns out, Vic had a gun on him. To protect himself, he said. Himself and his family.

 

Numb horror filled Sam.

 

' _I_ can protect you.. and your family...'

 

He had to stay... he _had_ to...

 

And then Gene burst into the clearing as well. He was going to destroy it all, bring Vic in... Sam couldn't let that happen. He didn't want to believe what Gene was saying, about the Morton brothers being just one man. No. Not his dad.

 

Gene and Annie advanced on Vic, the gun still pointing at him.

 

_No_.

 

'Now this... this is an odd thing to do.' Gene's voice was quivering.

 

Not real. Not real. Sam stared at Gene, from behind the jet black barrel of his gun. Not real. But if it wasn't real, how was this going to help? _No, don't think that_.

 

'You don't want me to leave. But I have to leave, Gene.' Sam's voice sounded strange to his own ears.

 

Gene didn't understand, and neither did Annie. How could they? They were not real. But Vic, he was, and he was running away now. Despair was clawing at his insides, making Sam's head spin.

 

' _Listen to me._ '

 

Wait, why did he even want Gene to understand?

 

'Write it down, I'll read it later.'

 

And Gene took off. So did Sam, his legs moving of their own accord. Vic, he needed to find him. He needed him to _stay_.

 

**

 

'Please, I'm begging you. I can keep you safe. Please.'

 

'You're so close. You can do it, Sam.'

 

Sam handed over the gun to his father.

 

' _Come on, Sam! Come on!_ '

 

Vic Tyler raised the gun, pointed it at his son. Pulled the trigger. Something inside Sam shattered, even when there was nothing but a click.

 

'I had to know.'

 

He let Vic Tyler go, in the end.

 

**

 

The fact that Gene didn't confront Sam, after everything that had taken place, told Sam all he needed to know. Nothing he ever did mattered in this world. He was still part of the team, somehow, as though nothing had happened.

 

He went along to the pub, but being there gave him no comfort. Looking at Annie, seeing how she was laughing with Phyllis and accepting an apologetic pint from Chris for all the trouble she'd gone through that day, it made Sam feel nauseous. How could he ever have thought that any of this was real? Even though the sorrow he felt seemed to be tearing him apart from the inside... He felt displaced, isolated, numb. Further from home than he ever was.

 

_Hide those bad feelings away, Sam._

 

Sam nodded at Gene as the latter caught his gaze, then hurried out of the Arms. No one followed.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the story for the first time deviates from the show. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for quite a lot of blood and torture in this one.

In the days after the case, Sam kept to himself. He and Gene didn't talk about what had happened in the woods, about how Sam had threatened his superior officer with a gun. It seemed as though for Gene, the matter was resolved, but even so, it made Sam feel uncomfortable. He didn't hang around the pub longer than he absolutely needed to, and more often than not went straight home. He couldn't look Annie in the eye either; knowing that it was his father who had come so close to killing her... Sam felt ashamed. That he'd been so blind.

  
  


But most of all, Sam felt incredibly disillusioned. All these years, deep down he'd kept clinging to the hope that somehow, his wings were connected to his dad. They were supposed to mean something, to be some kind of gift to remind Sam of the fact that his father was alive somewhere, and that he was going to come back and everything would be alright.

  
  


Instead, he had turned out to be a criminal. A porn peddler and a ruthless killer. Sam was no closer to waking up than he had been when this whole nightmare started. He was still as lost as ever, an oddity wherever he went. The phones and televisions had gone quiet, and even the girl from the test card had stopped visiting him.

  
  


Sam tried not to let all of that get to him. He'd always pulled through before, he was determined to do so now. But more and more he found himself withdrawing, pulling back from fights with Gene, conceding even when he felt that he was in the right. If Gene noticed this change in Sam's behaviour, he didn't comment on it, although Sam did catch the odd glance his superior threw in his direction. Annie seemed willing to help, but out of guilt he kept his distance from her after what had happened in the woods.

  
  


And so he found himself alone in his flat one night, save for the company of a bottle of wine. He didn't want to think about how he had taken to drowning his sorrows in alcohol – Maya would be horrified and ashamed of him. He could almost hear the girl whisper, _Don't think, Sam. Sleep. Just sleep_.

  
  


Maybe he really should just go to sleep.

  
  


With a sigh, Sam picked up the bottle again, but to his dismay it was empty already. He couldn't remember drinking that much wine. Somewhat unsteadily, he got up from his chair, not quite knowing what he actually intended to do next. The decision was taken from him when there was a knock on his door.

  
  


Sam wavered, staring towards the door. The only person he could think of who would visit him at this hour was Gene. He couldn't figure out a reason for why Gene would decide to show up at his flat tonight, of all times, but then again, Gene was unpredictable. So finally, Sam moved over to the door and opened it without further thought. He didn't want his Guv to kick the door in _again_ , after all.

  
  


Had he been sober, he may have called out to see who was there. This way, he would have saved himself a fist to his face, sending him reeling back into his flat. He landed on his arse, his vision blurry and filled with stars, pain radiating through his head. Footsteps approached him and Sam tried to scramble away, lashing out wildly. He hit something, heard a pained grunt and a curse, but as he tried to pull himself up by his table, something hard hit the back of his head, and everything went black.

  
  


**

  
  


It was the pulsing pain in his head that pulled Sam back to awareness. A groan escaped him before he could stop it. He shifted, slowly coming to realize that he was sitting upright in a chair – held upright, in fact. Ropes, his brain supplied after a few seconds. His ankles were secured to the chair's legs, his wrists tied together, his upper body wrapped up tightly against the backrest. Sam tried his best to open his eyes, but that resulted in a flash of pain shooting through his head, and he gave up.

  
  


That was when he heard a chuckle. Sam couldn't place it at first, but then the man talked, and Sam forgot to breathe.

  
  


'Good evening, Mr Tyler. So good of you to join us.'

  
  


Sam forced his eyes open. His vision was blurry, but he would recognize those massive black wings anywhere.

  
  


Stephen Warren. Smiling at him so malevolently that Sam nearly recoiled. Warren chuckled, closing in on Sam. As he walked, his wings rustled and spread out, seeming to fill the entire room.

  
  


Sam opened his mouth, but it took a moment to find his voice. 'How...'

  
  


Warren looked far too pleased with himself, knowing exactly which question was burning on Sam's mind. 'Contacts, my boy. You underestimated me, I'm afraid. You and Gene both.'

  
  


Sam shook his head in disbelief, at the same time trying to get rid of the haze that was clouding his mind. He need to be able to think, to stall, keep Warren occupied, until--

  
  


Sam's thoughts stuttered to a halt and blanked out completely as Warren walked around him, one of his wings gliding across Sam's face. And then, Warren's hands were on his own little wings, forcing them to unfold.

  
  


If the first time Gene had touched his wings had made his stomach churn, it was as though Sam now needed to jump out of his skin to get away from this. He felt ill, bile rising at the back of his throat, his chest so tight that it was difficult to breathe.

  
  


And yet, Sam held himself perfectly still. As much as he needed this to stop, he was painfully aware of the way Warren was holding his wing, firmly at the joints. One wrong move, and it would snap like a twig. Sam couldn't stop himself from shivering, though, as Warren's hand travelled further down, stroking over the bristling coverts, pulling the primaries slightly apart to examine them more closely.

  
  


'So curious,' he said, as if to himself. 'I've never seen anything like this. Truly marvellous. So _delicate_.'

  
  


Sam couldn't see his face, but he could easily picture Warren's expression. He swallowed thickly. 'I'm warning you...'

  
  


Warren laughed. 'I don't think you're in any position to _warn_ me, Mr Tyler.' He forced Sam's wing to spread out even further and Sam shivered again, feeling dizzy with intense discomfort. Still, he continued, forcing his voice to be strong, commanding.

  
  


'You've overstepped your mark. We'll have you for escaping prison, abduction of a police officer...'

  
  


Again, Warren laughed, even more heartily than before. ' _We_? Oh, you _are_ funny. You think anyone will give a damn about what happens to you? Oh no, my dear boy – no one is going to come. I lost some of my best employees thanks to you and your DCI, and on top of that spent a few unpleasant weeks away from home, but I've received my compensation. You're _mine_ now.'

  
  


Compensation. No, that couldn't be right. All this had stopped, hadn't it? Though of course, Sam could only speak for Gene and CID; whatever happened in the rest of the station, whether there were police officers left on the take, he had no way of knowing. The thought made him feel equal parts sick and angry.

  
  


'You're delusional, Warren. You'll be back where you belong faster than--' He broke off with a startled, pained grunt as Warren clipped him round the back of his head, setting off the bump Sam hadn't realized was there. He squeezed his eyes shut as the pain flared, leaving him disoriented.

  
  


Behind him, Warren's voice droned, cutting into him, 'Quite a feisty one, aren't you. I'll have to teach you some manners. Teach you to sing only when you're told to.'

  
  


Sam opened his mouth, needing to fight back, but only managed to gasp as he felt the grip on his wing grow more painful, his head beginning to spin. The image of Joni and the other girls, in their cages with pinioned wings, flashed in front of his eyes. God, _no_ \--

  
  


'So elegant... finespun, even... makes me wonder...!'

  
  


And that was all the warning Sam got before a dry snap rang out, and Sam screamed, jerking forward and straining against his bonds. The pain was like nothing he had experienced before, paralyzing him and driving through his body like a blade of steel. It stole his breath away, turning the scream into a strangled groan. Somewhere behind him, Sam could hear Warren chuckle. The next moment there was a hand in his hair, wrenching up his head, forcing him to stare into Warren's face, a cruel glint in his eyes.

  
  


'Well, wasn't that _fun_.'

  
  


Sam's eyes were watering and his chest heaving with rapid shallow breaths, but he still made himself glare at Warren – looking away would mean admitting his fear. And he was scared. So scared.

  
  


'And now I get to see for myself how your little wings react... Do they have the same regenerative power? Will I get to break them again and _again_?' Warren grinned. 'Oh, Mr Tyler, you are going to keep me entertained for a long, _long_ time.'

  
  


Sam forced out the words, only half conscious of what he was doing. 'You're sick... Gene won't--'

  
  


Warren let go of Sam and slapped him instead, leaving his ears ringing. 'Shush now, boy. Remember, only speak when I give you permission.'

  
  


The world was spinning around Sam – he was breathing too fast, trying to calm himself down, ride out the pain – and Warren's voice came from the side now, _crooning_ , 'There's a good boy.' A hand was in his hair again, ruffling instead of grabbing it, and Sam recoiled, jerking his head away angrily. It made the vertigo worse, but he needed to get away, he needed to stand up to Warren.

  
  


'Screw you,' he grated, having to close his eyes again when another burst of pain, caused by an involuntary twitch of his damaged wing, shot through him.

  
  


He fully expected Warren to lash out again, but surprisingly enough, it didn't happen. Sam heard an amused huff, then the ominous rustling of feathers, wings moving. Behind closed eyes, it seemed as though the world was getting darker, and when Sam cracked one eye open, he realized that Warren had spread his wings and moved them to form a cocoon around them, blocking out the light. And he was so standing close, so close, leaning in now and whispering into Sam's ear, warm breath ghosting over his skin, 'I might enjoy that.'

  
  


Sam couldn't stop his head from snapping around to stare at Warren, who very obviously found his victim's shock deeply gratifying, if his wide smile and low chuckle were anything to go by. Before Sam had a chance to retaliate, he flinched as Warren's fingers took a hold of his wings once more – the unhurt one this time.

  
  


'But clearly, you need to be taught some manners first. Gene isn't the best teacher when it comes to behaviour, I know, so I'm not surprised... indeed, I was quite looking forward to correcting that.'

  
  


Stroking over his feathers, taking his time, examining them closely. Sam's eyes had gone dry as he stared ahead, unblinking, frozen in horror. If he didn't move, Warren might lose interest, leave him alone for the time being... For long enough for Gene to come and...

  
  


_Is he really going to come, though,_ a voice whispered at the back of Sam's head. Warren had said that Sam was 'compensation'. And considering how easily he had escaped prison, he must still have contacts at the station. If that contact somehow kept Gene from realizing that something was wrong... God, how long since he'd been grabbed? Surely someone must have noticed that Sam had gone missing... surely...

  
  


A sudden tug at his wing made Sam's mind jerk back into the present.

  
  


'Christ, Sam, pay attention!' Warren tutted. His hand was in Sam's hair again, gripping just hard enough to make its presence known, but not pulling him back yet. 'Really now. You must be absolutely _gagging_ for proper education. Well...'

  
  


The sound of large feathers rustling all around him set Sam's ears buzzing and his head aching, adding to the overall pain. Warren moved until he was standing in front of Sam again, his wings still shrouding them in a strange twilight, just bright enough for Sam to be able to see his sick smile. He was still holding Sam's unhurt wing.

  
  


'… I hope you're ready for this, Samuel.'

  
  


Warren took a hold of the first of Sam's primary feathers, and _pulled_.

  
  


Sam hadn't thought it possible, but having his wing broken was nothing compared to the agony of having a primary plucked straight out of the bone. Sam's voice broke as he screamed, Warren's laughter ringing in his ears.

  
  


And _he didn't stop_.

  
  


**

  
  


'Sam.'

  
  


The beeping of the heart monitor, so distant and yet so close, sounded shrill to Sam's ears. However, it still wasn't enough to drown out the steady drip of blood hitting the floor, and his own harsh breathing. Sam didn't know how many feathers had been plucked. He'd lost count. He must have fainted at some point. He _knows_ he vomited all over his lap at one point, but that hadn't deterred Warren.

  
  


Sam coughed weakly. His eyes wouldn't stay open. There was a chuckle somewhere close to him, but Sam didn't move. Movement meant agony.

  
  


Fingers on his tear-streaked face, cradling his chin, raising his head.

  
  


'Samuel.'

  
  


_That's not my name_ , Sam thought. Then, he was distracted by a strange touch to his cheek – soft, light, almost ticklish. He forced his eyes open, only to find that he was face-to-face with Warren. The thing stroking his cheek, Sam realized with a sickening jolt that dragged him a little further towards awareness, was one of his own feathers, held delicately by Warren.

  
  


'I assume you've learned your lesson.' Warren's voice was low and calm, as though he hadn't just put Sam through hell and back. Now that his eyes were open, Sam found that he couldn't look away. Warren's dark eyes had captured him, holding him right there, helpless.

  
  


'I'll let you think about it on your own for a little while. No doubt your little wings will begin to mend soon.' Warren's smile became a little wider. 'And then we can have some more fun with them.'

  
  


Sam's eyes widened slightly; he was incapable of any other reaction. The screaming had wrecked his voice, the pain was debilitating.

  
  


'And this is all your life will be from now on, Sam. You'll be at my disposal. My plaything.' Another stroke with the feather. Sam could only stare. Right then, in that moment, he did not doubt Warren's words. It felt like an eternity had passed already; nobody was going to come and find him. And after the debacle that was the Morton Brothers case, he doubted that Gene cared enough to put effort into a search for him.

  
  


This was it. The rest of his (short, looking at things realistically) life. Going through agony again, and again, and _again_... Maybe, and that was a last sliver of hope he latched onto, he would wake up, at the end of it all. Finally go home.

  
  


There was a distant bang. Warren froze, his expression of deep satisfaction faltering momentarily. Another sound from somewhere beyond the room, and he stood up and turned around. Sam had to close his eyes as the light, no longer obscured by Warren's wings, shone down on him. For a few moments, nothing out of the ordinary was to be heard.

  
  


Then, the door at the far end of the room flew open, and more light flooded in, sending a pang of sharp pain through Sam's head. Through the beeping and the buzzing in his ears, Sam heard something he never thought he would hear again.

  
  


Gene's voice.

  
  


'Move away from him, or I swear to God I'll kill you.'

  
  


Sam tried to force his eyes open – he needed to _see_ , needed to be sure that he wasn't dreaming this – but it was no use. He heard Warren answer, but the buzzing in his ears was growing louder and louder, and more voices joined in, saying how this was a worrying development and he was slipping away, how he needed to stay strong... It became impossible to tell what was real and what wasn't.

  
  


However, when the shot rang out, Sam knew with unwavering certainty that Gene had discharged his gun.

  
  


**

  
  


Sam had no complete recollection of what had happened after Gene fired that bullet.

  
  


He remembered a scream, though he could never tell where it had originated.

  
  


He remembered being lifted up, blearily staring up at Gene's stony expression, thinking, _I'm in so much pain_. He thought he'd heard Gene mutter something along the lines of, 'I'd be dead worried if you weren't', but then that would mean that Gene had learned how to read minds, and that was impossible. Sam couldn't imagine that he'd have been able to actually speak at that point.

  
  


He remembered quick steps through an echoing hallway, words floating above him. 'Hospital isn't an option. You'll have to put up with me.'

  
  


He remembered crying from the pain.

  
  


'Hang in there, Sammy.'

  
  


He remembered wind rushing by.

  
  


He remembered _flying_.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has troubles recovering.
> 
> WARNING: AU-specific self harm, graphic depictions of said self harm. As in, blood. Take it easy if you're easily squicked.

When Sam came to, he was laid out on his front in what appeared to be a very comfortable bed. The room was dark and quiet, the only sounds coming from outside – the occasional bird tweeting, and someone in a different room clattering about and whistling tunelessly.

  
Sam had no idea where he was, or how he had got there. So he didn't move, tried to assess his own physical state instead. Moving his head seemed possible, but quickly proved to be too troublesome and energy-consuming. His back felt... heavy. And not just because of the blanket that was covering him up to his rib cage – there was something else, weighing Sam down, almost pinning him to the mattress.

 

Sam tried to move his wings.

 

It _hurt_.

 

Through his groan, Sam could hear footsteps approaching fast. He'd pressed his head further into the pillow, but now as the door opened, he tried to look up again, he needed to see who was there, he needed to protect himself...

 

'Sam!'

 

It was Gene's voice, and a second later, the man himself appeared in Sam's line of (blurry) vision, looking unusually casual with his shirt open and revealing the vest underneath, a towel slung over his shoulder. Before Sam could try and make sense of this, Gene's hand was on his shoulder, gently but firmly coaxing him to lie down properly again.

 

'None of that now. You need rest.'

 

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. 'What...'

 

'You were in the wars. Your wings took a bit of a battering. Don't worry, they'll mend themselves, but they need a little help, and a lot of patience on your side – and I know you won't like that, because you're an impatient little prick, but you'll have to deal with it.'

 

Gene's voice was strange, and it took Sam several seconds to figure out why: He was talking in such a _friendly_ way. Like a nurse caring for a patient, telling them that everything would be fine. He cracked one eye open, once more taking in the way Gene was dressed, then the unfamiliar room itself. Finally, he opened his mouth, though talking was surprisingly hard – it took Sam a few tries before he was able to string together a few words.

 

'… your house?'

 

Gene nodded, a little smirk making his lips twitch. 'Yeah, Casa de'l Hunt. Better enjoy that privilege while it lasts, Sammy-boy.' He rubbed Sam's shoulder (comfortingly, in a way) and added, 'Go back to sleep.'

 

Sam thought that that sounded very reasonable, and obliged.

  
  


**

  
  


It took a lot of sleep for Sam's wings to mend to a point where he was able to spend more than fifteen minutes awake. Apparently that was what it took – sleep, so that the bones could knit together and the feathers grow back. Gene had put the broken wing in a makeshift cast, to help the bones mend and to stop Sam from moving his wings too much. The problem with that was, Sam's nights were frequently interrupted by nightmares. Filled with a flurry of feathers dark as the abyss, a soft laugh, his own weak crying and pain, so much pain. Sam woke up screaming more often than not. Gene was there every time, stopping him from seriously hurting himself, trying to calm him down. He succeeded mostly, reminding Sam of where he was. He never could quite believe that he was safe now, though.

  
  


After several days of mending, Sam's wings still looked awkward, with so many of the primaries missing, only just budding and starting to reform. He was lucky, Gene said; it appeared to him as though Sam's wings were stuck in some kind of adolescent stage of growth, which meant that they were a lot more ready to reform bones and feathers. With Gene's own wings, he was adamant, it would be taking a whole lot longer.

  
  


Sam supposed he ought to feel relieved knowing that, and being able to watch his wings heal bit by bit. However, Sam felt nothing of the sort. No relief, no hope.

  
  


When he studied his wings in the mirror, he imagined himself without them.

  
  


He found himself wishing that Warren had cut them off altogether.

  
  


What had they ever done for him? He remembered loving them when he was a young boy, but that feeling had long since passed. No, those wings had given him nothing but grief and trouble. Had attracted unwanted attention, had very nearly gotten him killed. He'd be much better off without them, wouldn't he?

  
  


Sam kept those thoughts to himself. He was grateful for the way Gene was caring for him, though he also found it a little disconcerting, the way he insisted that Sam stay with him until he was completely healed up. He wasn't allowed to go to work until that day either, so Sam spent a lot of time alone in his Guv's home. At first, he busied himself with housework and reading, mostly, often preparing meals for the evenings (strangely enough, Gene didn't go to the pub after work as often as Sam always thought he did). He hardly ever felt like talking much. If Gene noticed, he probably put it down to either Sam being tired, or still affected by what happened.

  
  


Which was the truth, to some extent.

  
  


They didn't talk about it. Gene just concentrated on helping Sam to mend, checked whether everything was coming back together the way it should. Beyond that, he left Sam to his own devices.

  
  


But it wasn't enough. Sam couldn't stop himself sliding down a circle of depression and self-loathing, strengthened by each rustle of his healing feathers, each sting of pain when he involuntarily moved them too much. He couldn't stand them. He wanted them _gone_.

  
  


**

  
  


One day, Sam noticed that, in one of the upper cupboards in the kitchen, Gene had a number of unused, fairly large knives, proper meat cleavers. It set him thinking. Planning.

 

**

  
  


One afternoon, knowing that Gene wouldn't return for a good few hours, Sam left the house to buy painkillers (the strong kind), bandages and disinfectant. He needed to make this as clean as possible. Gene had helped him as much as he could, after all, so Sam wanted to make sure to leave as little a mess as he could.

  
  


It wouldn't be easy. The angle would be awkward, and it would hurt, despite the painkillers Sam had just chugged – as many as he dared, not wanting to impair his co-ordination and focus too badly. The bandages and bin bag were ready, the knife disinfected. All of that was familiar. He had attempted to do this when he was younger, after all. This time, however, he was going to go through with it until the end.

  
  


He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, knife in hand, staring at the tiles of the opposite wall. Despite his grim determination, it was difficult to actually start. This entire plan would have very permanent results, after all.

  
  


Sam raised his head. He hadn't heard any more hospital sounds since he'd woken up in Gene's guest room. There were no encouragements, no indication of anyone being there. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe getting rid of the wings was the kind of shock he needed to wake up. None of that made sense, but Sam didn't care. All that mattered now was to go through with this – to take the definitive step.

  
  


Taking a deep breath, Sam picked up the knife and made sure that, whatever happened, most of the blood would end up in the tub instead of on the floor. He could see himself in the mirror – pale, although his movements were calm and measured as he reached behind himself, grabbing hold of his left wing. That was the unbroken one, though Warren had made sure to pull so many feathers from it that it had hurt far more than the other one. They still hadn't grown back completely; despite their strong regenerative ability, this wasn't something wings could recover from easily.

  
  


Sam raised the knife experimentally, trying to work out the best way to do this without causing more injuries than he already intended to. No need to chop off a finger or two as well. The detachment he felt to the entire situation almost scared Sam, but he was rather grateful for it. He didn't need anything or anyone holding him back, least of all himself.

  
  


Finally, he felt confident enough. Looking in the mirror, he could be sure that his aim would be as precise as it could get. Sam exhaled slowly.

  
  


_Hide those bad feelings away, Sam_.

  
  


Sam brought the knife in position. Gripped it harder.

  
  


Slashed downwards.

  
  


It hurt. Despite the painkillers, there was an initial jolt of sharp, sickening pain. Sam lurched forward, gagging, but suppressing the scream that was trying to escape him. He glanced in the mirror and saw blood dripping down from his wing. The initial pain faded away, replaced by insistent pulsing and pulling. Sam swallowed and shook his head, raising the knife again. He couldn't stop now, he needed to finish what he had started.

  
  


He hacked down again, groaning with the intense discomfort and renewed agony. Breathing hard, Sam tried to continue, but found that he needed to give himself a little time to adjust – there was a roaring in his ears and his head was spinning slightly. Blood loss and shock, probably. He closed his eyes, willing himself to remain calm, only faintly registering the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. You can do it Sam, you can do it –

  
  


'Sam.'

  
  


Sam opened his eyes, but didn't turn. He knew Gene could see full well what was going on.

  
  


'Go away.' His voice was monotonous, not at all matching with his actions. Blood kept dripping down into the bathtub, some of it hitting the floor of Gene's bathroom as well.

  
  


'Put the knife down, Sam.'

  
  


Sam didn't answer. He didn't put down the knife. His knuckles had turned white with the intensity of his grip.

  
  


' _Sam_.'

  
  


Gene had taken a step towards him. Sam raised the knife again, and Gene stopped.

  
  


'You don't understand.'

  
  


'Clearly I don't, no.' Gene was keeping his voice very restrained, forcibly calm. He sounded exactly the way he had done that day in the woods, when Sam had turned his gun on him. 'Care to elaborate?'

  
  


Sam raised his head a little, but didn't turn around. 'Didn't have you down as the willing listener.'

  
  


'Yeah, well.' Forced jocularity, now. 'You'd be surprised the tricks you can teach an old pony like me.'

  
  


Sam snorted, shook his head. Raised the knife further, faster, intent on cutting. He needed to get this over with quickly – the cut was bleeding and pulling uncomfortably, and soon the pain, still muted by the pills, would overwhelm him. He needed to get both wings done before that happened.

  
  


'Sam, _please_.'

  
  


'Shut up,' Sam snapped, for the first time glancing sideways to see Gene standing in the doorway, one hand outstretched. 'You couldn't possibly--!' He broke off, collecting himself. 'I have to do this.'

  
  


'Listen to me.'

  
  


There was an urgency to Gene's voice that made Sam pause and look at him properly. He was uncharacteristically pale, his eyes wide.

  
  


'You cut off your wings, you die. It's as simple as that. I've seen it happen.'

  
  


Sam stared at Gene. The latter took that as a sign to take another cautious step into the bathroom.

  
  


'I'm not suicidal,' Sam said, though his own voice sounded hollow to him. He just wanted his wings gone, why couldn't he for once get what he wanted?

  
  


'Could've fooled me. No need to hold onto that knife then, yeah?'

  
  


Sam looked down at the knife in his hand. 'You could just be saying this to stop me from going through with this. Because your wings are more than just dead weights on your back.'

  
  


'Sam, I'm bloody serious. Soon as you cut them off, you'll bleed to death faster than you can say 'flying piece of shit'. And even if you don't, the damage it'll do to your already cracked head will be enough to leave you a drooling mess for the rest of your life. Is that what you want, Sam?'

  
  


Sam raised his head again to see that Gene had come a lot closer – close enough to reach out to and touch. Slowly, he shook his head.

  
  


'Smashing.' Gene carefully gestured with his outstretched hand. 'The knife.'

  
  


Sam stared at the proffered hand. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was going to get rid of the wings, once and for all... But now that Gene had interrupted him, doubt began to rise inside him. His injured wing was pulsing away, the pain making him feel sick.

  
  


'I don't want them,' Sam muttered, more to himself than anything else.

  
  


'Yeah well, sometimes we have to put up with shit we don't want.'

  
  


Sam gave a little snort. 'Isn't that the truth.'

  
  


Neither of them moved for a few seconds. But finally, Sam slowly handed over the knife. Then, the tears started falling. No sobs, no sniffling, just tears filling his eyes, spilling over, dripping down his cheeks and chin, onto his shirt. The pain was becoming more and more intense, the slow yet steady blood loss making Sam feel light-headed.

  
  


He heard a faint _clink._ A moment later, a hand began stroking through his hair, while the other pulled him into a warm embrace. Unable to help himself, Sam pressed his face into Gene's shirt, clinging onto his back as though Gene were a lifebelt. A faint rustling, and Sam felt a soft blanket surround them, white feathers diluting the light.

  
  


How long they remained like this, Sam couldn't tell. He was distantly aware of Gene gently disentangling himself from Sam, and he must have bandaged up the half-cut wing at some point as well. The blood loss made it impossible for Sam to keep his eyes open, and when Gene tried to help him out of the bathroom, his knees buckled.

  
  


Somehow, though, he did end up in the bed. There was a steadying hand on his shoulder right until the moment Sam slipped away into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost half-way through the story, I think! Thank you for sticking with me so far. <3 I'd just like to let you all know that I'll be putting up a little progress bar in my profile, to show you guys that I'm continuously working on this (such an amazing stress reliever) - so you can expect regular updates there. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets a chance to catch his breath, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to say this, but talkingtothesky is amazing, and without her beta reading my fics would be a terribly jumbled mess. Also, we're about halfway there! Yay!

'I can't believe I'm even saying this, but you need to take better care of your pipe cleaners.'

  
  


Sam looked up from his bowl of cereal, raising an eyebrow. 'Really.'

  
  


'Course.' Gene leaned back, having just finished a bacon butty, licking the grease off his fingers one by one. 'Never mind your orgasmic yoghurt and all that rubbish, what you need,' he pointed towards Sam's shoulders with two fingers, 'is some proper grooming.'

  
  


Sam's other eyebrow shot up. ' _Grooming_?'

  
  


Gene gave an annoyed huff. 'You heard me, don't make me repeat it. Plenty embarrassing already. Every chick knows how to take care of its wings.'

  
  


Despite those jabs, Sam thought he could detect something like fondness in Gene's tone of voice. 'And this is going to help how, exactly?'

  
  


Gene merely rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. 'Trust the Gene Genie.'

  
  


**

  
  


A week had passed since Sam had tried to cut off his wings. When he had woken up the next morning, having slept the sleep of the dead, Sam had realized that Gene had set him up in Gene's own massive double bed. He had decided that it was better not to ask, but it was his DCI himself who had offered up an explanation.

  
  


'Nobody should be alone, feeling crap like that.'

  
  


He also made it clear that if Sam ever ventured into Gene's half of the bed, he'd be down at least one testicle. Sam solemnly swore to never so much as glance at Gene when they were in bed together. However, he could tell that they both enjoyed the proximity, even without expressly admitting it. More than once, Sam woke up to the feeling of Gene's back pressed against his, or one of his wings draped protectively over Sam's body.

  
  


It definitely helped with Sam's nightmares as well. There just was something about Gene, about the way he was able to suddenly show such care when Sam would have least expected it, that helped him remain grounded. The steadying hand on his shoulder, sometimes stroking through his hair when Sam was primed to scrabble out of the bed and hide, it did wonders, and he was able to get back to sleep within minutes. And not once did Gene complain about the interrupted nights.

  
  


Altogether, Gene was simply paying more attention to Sam. He brought him case files every few days. When Sam asked him about the aftermath of his kidnapping, Gene readily told him that the team knew nothing of Sam's involvement in the whole thing – he had found several of the girls Warren had 'employed' who very readily agreed to take Sam's place as the victim (Gene said they didn't even need to pretend all too much with their account of what Warren had allegedly done to them; Sam shivered, but didn't inquire further). And as for Sam himself, in this narrative he had very conveniently taken off on a trip to a distant, sadly dying relative. This being the seventies and investigative procedures being lax on the best of days, nobody had questioned Gene's version of events.

  
  


It was better that way. Even Sam, still new to the entire societal system of winged people, understood that a crime that related to wings so specifically could not be investigated as such by 'normal' humans. Substitutes had to be found. And all of that had led to Warren being detained in a high security prison with minimal chances of being released again, so Sam was content.

  
  


**

  
  


'Right. Pay attention.'

  
  


Sam was, for lack of a better word, perched at the edge of the settee, his back turned on Gene who was sitting right behind him. At his words, Sam inhaled, his shoulders tensing reflexively. He heard Gene huff.

  
  


'I said pay attention, not freeze! Relax, Sammy-boy.'

  
  


Sam rolled his eyes and tried to concentrate, but he couldn't help it – the thought of someone else touching his wings set him on edge, now more than ever. Gene sighed. 'Trust you to make a bloody affair out of this...'

  
  


One hand settled on Sam's shoulder. The fingers of the other traced a path down Sam's spine until they reached that one spot right between the roots of his wings, which Gene started to gently yet firmly massage. And much like during their first encounter, Sam found his muscles relaxing of their own accord, a warm tingling starting to spread through his back.

  
  


'That's it,' Gene muttered, continuing that treatment until Sam nearly toppled backwards.

  
  


A little breathlessly he asked, 'What the hell _is_ that...?'

  
  


He could almost hear Gene smile. 'Sweet spot, innit. Don't try and do that on your own, you'll break your skinny arms trying to reach it.'

  
  


Sam nodded absentmindedly, his attention being drawn to the circular motions of Gene's fingers on his back. He could feel his entire being homing in on that one sensation, grounding him in the moment. When the massage stopped, he was almost disappointed.

  
  


Satisfied that Sam was sufficiently relaxed, Gene now reached for Sam's mostly-mended wing (the other one was still sporting a bandage near the root). Unlike the first time this had happened, his touch was a lot softer now. Sam turned his head and craned his neck, trying to see what Gene was doing exactly.

  
  


'Right. The important thing is that you don't overdo it. No scrubbing, no pulling apart all your feathers,' he explained, a look of deep concentration on his face. 'It's about doing what feels good. Gut feeling. And whatever you do, don't use soap.'

  
  


It was strange to hear Gene talk like this – so much less aggressive and assertive than he usually was, even though there still was authority in his voice. But, it was a kind of authority that made Sam feel safe in a way that he still struggled to explain properly to himself. Usually they would be up in each others' faces, arguing, shouting. Even during the last week they had gotten into arguments, because Gene Hunt wouldn't be Gene Hunt if he had mollycoddled Sam in that regard as well. But this... this was different. Sam was man enough to admit that Gene knew much more about wings than Sam probably ever would. Even though they didn't exactly talk about them often, not even after what had happened, whenever they did find themselves in a moment like this, it made Sam feel comfortable with himself. With the wings. And right now, that was more than he could ever have hoped for.

  
  


So he said nothing and let Gene comb through his feathers, picking them apart gently, sometimes rearranging them, a comfortable silence surrounding them for the next few minutes.

  
  


It was only when Gene softly said, 'Oi' and squeezed Sam's shoulder that he realized he had started to nod off.

  
  


'Oh... sorry.' Sam sat up again, somewhat self-consciously, turning his hand around to try and inspect Gene's handiwork. It was difficult to tell with his coat of feathers, jet-black as they were, but they did look a bit... smoother. Healthier, even, but how Gene had achieved that in such a short amount of time was a mystery to Sam.

  
  


Gene himself snorted, shaking his head. 'You were supposed to pay attention.' But even though the words suggested otherwise, his tone of voice didn't carry accusations or even a reprimand, and so Sam gave a little smile and turned back again, his eyes settling on the opposite wall.

  
  


'Did your mum teach you this, then?' he said, in small part because he needed to prevent himself from dozing off again, but mostly because Sam was genuinely interested. And to his surprise, Gene didn't wave him off, or call him a sentimental git.

  
  


'Nah, no wings on her, or my dad. I looked a right ruffled up chicken until I joined the police.' Gene let go of Sam's good wing. For a moment it seemed like that was that, but then Sam felt an infinitely gentle touch to his broken wing. He couldn't help but flinch slightly, try and pull it out of Gene's grasp, a sickly tingling sensation shooting through the limb and up his spine, but his Guv must have anticipated that reaction; he was massaging the 'sweet spot' again with his free hand, and soon Sam was relaxed enough again for him to continue the grooming.

  
  


'Harry Woolf taught me the ins and outs of both policing and everything else. He's a good man, looked out for me when I needed it.'

  
  


'Is he still with the force?'

  
  


'Chief Super. If you're lucky, you'll meet him.'

  
  


'I'd like to,' Sam admitted – it sounded as though Gene genuinely respected the man and held him in high regard.

  
  


Gene didn't spend as much time on Sam's damaged wing as he had on the other one, probably because Sam couldn't help but wince whenever it moved. One last stroke, and he set it down gently, leaving it up to Sam to fold up both his wings as comfortably as possible. 'There you go then. Questions?'

  
  


Sam reached behind himself to feel the feathers, shaking out his good wing afterwards. 'How often do you do this?'

  
  


Gene raised an eyebrow. 'That's a very private question to ask, DI Tyler.'

  
  


Taken aback, Sam frowned. 'You just told me to...' Then, however, he noticed the glint in Gene's eyes. He huffed, his tension dissipating. 'Oh. So it's like that, is it.'

  
  


'Don't ask a bloke how often he sits down to have some hands-on quality time, do you,' Gene said nonchalantly, moving over to his armchair and sitting down, wings comfortably spread out over and behind the backrest. Sam rolled his eyes, choosing not to point out that Gene had just groomed another man's feathers – so following through with the analogy, they had just partaken in a bit more male bonding than could be deemed completely straight. However, as had been established, Sam wasn't suicidal; besides, he felt nothing but gratitude for Gene at the moment. Nothing more to it than that.

  
  


So Sam decided to dismiss these thoughts entirely, leaning back and settling down as well. It wasn't hard – he felt content with himself, his limbs heavy with relaxation and a certain degree of drowsiness.

  
  


'Do what feels good, basically,' he said, still wanting an answer to his question.

  
  


Gene nodded with a look of satisfaction on his face. 'You're starting to get it.'

  
  


Sam's lips twitched into a small smile. He leaned his head back, letting his eyes fall closed. The hint of a lazy drawl in his voice, he asked, 'When can I return from visiting my _ill relative_?'

  
  


'Last time I checked, they were dead, so try and look suitably gloomy – won't be hard for you, I imagine.'

  
  


Sam raised his head and opened one eye to glare at Gene, who continued as though he hadn't noticed, 'Another few days, I'd say. Sooner, if you feel up to getting your hands dirty again. I'm warning you though – you faint on the job, and I won't be there to catch your fairy arse.'

  
  


Again, Sam couldn't help the smirk that flitted over his face – there was no better indicator of normality than the way Gene talked to him. 'Yes, Guv,' he murmured, wiggling about slightly to adjust his position on the settee. A nap was in order, he thought, and it seemed that Gene agreed; the room fell silent save for a satisfied sigh from Gene's corner, and the faint sound of rustling feathers, moving in time with their breathing. It didn't take long for Sam to doze off, knowing that he would be able to enjoy another few blissful days of recovery.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's back to normal for Sam. Back to that normal coma dream of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, talkingtothesky is my fabulous beta reader, ensuring that I don't go over the top and doom the story and characters to incoherence. <3
> 
> We are now back in episode-related territory, so expect canon-typical swearing, violence and themes.

It seemed that Sam just wasn't meant to be happy and content in this world.

  
  


Everything had been fine while he had been staying at Gene's – not perfect, but comfortable. He hadn't been looking forward to moving back into his dingy little flat; however, Sam did value his personal space and private time. And more than that, he was eager to prove to himself that he was strong enough to get through this on his own from here on out. It was good to know that Gene had his back in one way, but that didn't simply erase all the other problems and disagreements they had. And most of all, no matter how grateful Sam was for his Guv's help – he wanted to go home. That would never change, and the fact that he still was no closer to waking up than he had been from the moment he found himself in 1973 very quickly pulled Sam back into what counted for normality in this coma dream of his. He deliberately called it 'normality', because while he was determined to do whatever it would take to go back home, Sam felt that it was much less of a struggle to live day by day, doing his job, argue with the Guv, get the team to work more diligently than they were otherwise used to.

  
  


Just a week or so after he proclaimed himself recovered (the nightmares had become rare even when he spent the night in his own flat), a case he had worked on only recently – well, recently in 2006 – threatened to completely undo him again.

  
  


There had been a change already; hospital voices calling out to him again, nurses saying he had to remain strong, keep fighting. And then, whistling.

  
  


Only this time, Sam had no idea who the whistling belonged to. All he knew was that a malicious voice followed, calling his name, and then – _pain_. Searing through his head, spiking through his eyes, burning through his veins. And always that eerie echo of _Bring Me Sunshine_ , haunting him like a ghost.

  
  


Still, Sam tried not to let it get to him. It was going to pass, like all the tests the doctors had subjected his comatose body to. There was a job he had to do – although he had no idea that this job would be so closely linked to his future predicament.

  
  


A man assaulted on a bus, his head smashed with a hammer. Gruesome scene, and the fact that Gene's mentor, Harry Woolf had weighed in as well, didn't make this any easier on any of them. Well – Sam couldn't hide his glee at the prospect of finally being able to conduct this investigation the way he would have done it in 2006. This had to be done by the book, and if there was one thing Sam knew, it was that very same book.

  
  


Annie found the lead that pointed them to that casino. And Sam should have known, really – the establishment's name should have tipped him off from the get-go, but with his head still pulsing away, he hadn't been able to tap into that particular part of his memory. The sight he was met with at the bar, however, was enough to plunge him into the ice cold water of realisation.

  
  


The man Gene had been talking to so pleasantly until Sam approached, was Tony Crane. The monster who would one day control most of Manchester's underworld, and who would rape and kill his wife because she would gather what was left of her courage and approach a detective - Sam.

  
  


And Sam failed her.

  
  


**

  
  


Any thought of doing things by the book left Sam's mind as he feverishly threw himself into the case. Now that he knew that it was Crane himself, his future self, torturing Sam in his hospital bed, he needed to put an end to this as soon as possible. His life – and Eve's - depended on it.

  
  


And when he needed him the most, Gene stood in his way. This one time Sam needed him to do his thing of intimidating suspects, he refused to, on account of the media and Gene's former mentor, Harry Woolf, watching them closely.

  
  


Sam grew desperate. The hospital visions happened at shorter intervals, the pain lingered for longer. He would have to take things into his own hands, if he couldn't rely on his Guv to do his part. It wasn't the most elegant method, but hell, Sam wouldn't be stitching Crane up if he didn't deserve it.

  
  


And that, of course, backfired spectacularly.

  
  


**

  
  


When the Hungarians pushed Sam out onto the roof and he saw Gene standing there, hands tied behind his back, Sam's stomach dropped, and he struggled. When they threw McKee off the roof, his brain short-circuited, and he stopped moving.

  
  


The men pulled him along right to the edge. Everything inside Sam was screaming to get away, _get AWAY_ , and yet he held himself completely rigid, his heels scraping along the concrete ground as he leaned against the arms holding him with all his might, putting his full weight into it. Behind Gene, an abyss seemed to open up, wide and dark and yawning, waiting to swallow him up, reduce him to nothing. Sam couldn't take his eyes off it. Inside his head, Crane laughed, at his fear, at his helplessness. He wanted to fight it, one small part of him wanted to still hold his head high, think fast, get them out of this situation, but it was drowned by the thunderous thudding of his own heart, the sound of static in his ears.

  
  


'Well, you were right about Crane. Maybe I won't kick ten types of shit out of you later.'

  
  


Sam's head snapped up, and he only just noticed that he was trembling so hard that his teeth were almost clicking together. Gene returned his stare with raised eyebrows. There was _something_ there, he was trying to tell Sam something, but his brain couldn't keep up, couldn't cope, as the Hungarians pushed them both closer to the edge, Sam's heels scraping against the concrete.

  
  


'We thought you'd like to die together.'

  
  


Sam's eyes slid away from Gene's, staring past his face. His hands were bound, yes, but his wings were still free. He'd be able to save himself. Sam would drop, like a stone. He opened his mouth, but no words came, not even a sound. Somewhere in his mind he knew that he must be looking pathetic, but what could he do? This was out of his control. Everything had slipped out of Sam's control.

  
  


'Oh, so it's my turn next? Lucky me!'

  
  


Gene's words rang painfully loudly in Sam's ears, drawing his attention back to his Guv. Even with panic clouding his mind, he knew that Gene was trying to communicate something, but Sam couldn't figure it out. He did, however, understand on some level that Gene was doing all he could to draw attention to himself, to make Crane's thugs push him over the edge first.

  
  


And that knowledge broke part of the spell. Sam's mouth opened again, the cogs in his brain whirring madly, trying to cope with everything at once, and he stuttered uselessly before finally managing to utter, 'S-smoke.'

  
  


The men stopped, pulling them both away a little. Sam's gaze remained caught in Gene's – it had changed from imploring to somewhat confused – before he finally managed to look away, concentrate on the men holding them prisoner.

  
  


'I-I'm dying for a smoke. P-please?'

  
  


Where was he even going with this? He glanced over at Gene, who at first was unresponsive, but then -

  
  


'Yeah lads, one last request and all that. C'mon, you're gonna have to bury us soon. Not in a hurry, are you? Eh?'

  
  


Miraculously, the men played along. Dropping the cigarette from his mouth 'accidentally' wasn't hard, with his body shaking as it already was. Everything else followed swiftly – as one of the thugs bent down to retrieve the fag, Sam's self-preservation instincts took over and he lashed out. Within a minute, he and Gene knocked the men out and freed themselves, Sam having stumbled away from the edge of the roof as soon as possible. They needed to go after Crane, he knew that, but for now all he could do was lean against the wall and gulp down breaths of air, his heart racing so fast that it was making him dizzy and light-headed.

  
  


A moment later, he was pulled away from the solid support of the brick wall by Gene. Right, Crane – they needed to –

  
  


Sam's thoughts were cut off brutally by a spike of white-hot pain driving itself through his head, and he screamed as he went down, clutching at his temples.

  
  


'Tyler?!'

  
  


Sam shook his head, blinded by the pain, and barely managed to hold up a hand and choke out, 'I can't, Guv, I can't – go on without me –'

  
  


Sam gasped as he felt a strong hand pull him up and drag him along. Gene was having none of it, supporting Sam as they made their way out of the building. He had just about regained his footing as they stepped out into the courtyard, when another wave of pain hit him full force, his knees giving out while Crane laughed madly in his head.

  
  


He was dying.

  
  


**

  
  


Somehow, he ended up in the Cortina.

  
  


Somehow, they found Crane.

  
  


Somehow, Sam didn't die.

  
  


**

  
  


They had him. Crane had been brought into CID, was now handcuffed to one of the filing cabinets. This was it, the moment Sam had been hoping for – for once, he would be able to prevent crimes from happening before they were committed. Adrenaline from the chase and his near-death experience was still thrumming through Sam as he stared at Crane – who was entirely too relaxed, considering the situation he was in, even confronted with the prospect of a ten-year sentence.

  
  


'C'mon, this case is a leaky vessel,' he drawled, eyes gliding from Gene over to Sam, who tensed up immediately. Crane smirked. 'Your DI – is insane.'

  
  


Sam could hear the rush of blood in his ears as his heart started to beat harder.

  
  


'Go on Sam, get it off your chest. You know you want to.'

  
  


Sam slowly unfolded his arms, swallowing. All eyes were on him. Crane, so cocky, so sure he had won. Annie, wide eyed, worried. Gene, unreadable as ever.

  
  


And the worst thing was, Sam _did_ want to get it off his chest. His life had gone tits-up, he had been tortured not even a month ago, and just a few hours earlier he barely escaped certain death. He was at a point where he simply didn't care about how crazy he would come off.

  
  


'Sam Tyler... is from the future.'

  
  


Besides, at the back of his mind, a plan began to form. Risky, borderline-insane.

  
  


Right up his street, then.

  
  


So Sam went along with it. Looked into Annie's stricken face, Gene's expression of disbelief, Crane's patronizing smile, and told them his story.

  
  


'And the best bit? I've got wings. The Guv as well.'

  
  


Crane openly laughed at that. Sam swore he saw Gene flinch, ever so slightly. 'You hear that? You people, a fantasy created by him, and he can fly as well, like a little bird.'

  
  


Sam closed his eyes. From off his side, he could hear Gene, a weary note in his voice, saying, 'So... my DI told you all this?'

  
  


Slowly, Sam opened his eyes again. Turned and faced Gene and Crane both.

  
  


'Actually... Tony Crany told _me_ this.'

  
  


It was a gamble. Sam had no idea if it was going to pay off.

  
  


But, in this moment, at the end of an insane day, he trusted Gene.

  
  


Minutes later, a raging and screaming Crane was dragged off by officers, Sam watching him go with a confused mix of satisfaction and foreboding.

  
  


**

  
  


'The hell do you think you were doing back there?'

  
  


Gene had backed Sam into a wall outside the pub. Sam was somewhat drunk, both on alcohol and the fact that he just put Crane behind bars _and_ survived his assault in the future, and snorted with laughter. 'Got 'im good, din't I.'

  
  


The next moment, Gene's fingers dug into the fabric of Sam's shirt, pulling him closer by the lapels. 'Do you have any idea what you did? What you could've caused?'

  
  


Sam still found Gene's outrage to be exceedingly funny, and so his grin broadened. 'What? Did my initiative and creative thinking ruffle your feathers?' He found his own pun so funny that he started laughing again.

  
  


He was cut off by the fist burying itself in his gut.

  
  


Bent over and coughing, Sam didn't see Gene as the latter hissed into his ear, 'There's a _code_ , Tyler. You don't talk about these things to wingless bastards, and you don't go announcing our existence to half the bloody station! If I hadn't cleaned up your mess--'

  
  


'What the – bloody hell are you talking about?!' Sam gasped, finally having regained his breath and interrupting Gene. 'I did what I had to do to get Crane locked away! There's no way anyone would have believed him – I knew what I was doing!'

  
  


'Did you, Sam? Did you really?' Gene pulled Sam up by his lapels again, blazing eyes burning into Sam. 'Because I think Crane was onto something. All that shite about you being from the future – what gave him that moronic idea? No, you were grasping for straws back there, and you can count yourself lucky that we got it sorted before anyone started asking questions.'

  
  


Gene let go of Sam suddenly, pushing him away. Sam caught himself against the wall and stared at him, eyes wide and midriff aching. The situation had lost all its hilarity. He hadn't seen this Guv this angry since the truth about Billy Kemble's death had come to light. And above all that, one realization started to pulse away in his mind.

  
  


Gene _knew_.

  
  


Or at the very least, had a strong suspicion that Crane had in fact been telling the truth.

  
  


Christ, where to start explaining that one away? After what had happened with Vic Tyler, Annie had threatened to call 'help', but hadn't gone through with it. There was no telling what Gene would do, but Sam didn't doubt for one moment that, if his Guv decided that an asylum would be the best place for his DI, he wouldn't hesitate.

  
  


Sam straightened up slowly. Gene was still watching him, hands balled into fists and held by his sides, his lips an even thinner line than usual. His wings were puffed up, but the sight wasn't funny – it was threatening. It reminded Sam of Warren's body language, made his own wings bristle. Sam licked his lips before forcing himself to speak.

  
  


'The situation was under control.'

  
  


Silence followed, growing tense as the seconds ticked by. Then, Gene lowered his chin slightly, still glaring at Sam, and pointed two fingers at him. 'I won't always be there to save your arse, Tyler. Remember that.'

  
  


With that, he turned around and stalked off into the night. A few seconds later, Sam heard the Arms' door open, the resulting cheer being cut off as it banged shut again. Sam remained where he was, staring at the spot where Gene had stood. His heart was beating overtime, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. The warm fuzz had been replaced by cold confusion and regret.

  
  


**

  
  


Too restless to make his way back to his flat, Sam had chosen to walk to the station instead. The desk sergeant nodded at him sleepily as he passed. Minutes later, Sam stood in the office, staring at what was now Annie's desk. He had suggested her as the new Detective Constable of the department, and strangely enough, Gene had accepted his proposition rather quickly. Sam had felt so proud, so satisfied at the sight, Annie holding her ground against the other men.

  
  


Now, the happy memory did nothing to alleviate the worry gnawing at him, the indignation. Gene had no right to judge him. He only knew half of the story, even if he had realized that Crane had spoken the truth. He didn't know what Sam had been through. His fingers curled into tight fists as he turned, staring over at Gene's office. He had no idea what Sam was having to deal with. No idea whatso--

  
  


The phone rang. Sam's head snapped around. A call, this time of the night? He glanced around, out of habit, but no one was there to confirm whether this was a phone only Sam could hear or not. His gaze fell back on the telephone, and after a long second of hesitation, he walked over and picked up the receiver.

  
  


'Tyler.'

  
  


'Sam.' The voice was male, unfamiliar. 'I know you can't talk to me right now. I just wanted to say –'

  
  


Sam rolled his eyes resignedly, reaching up to press the fingers of his free hand against his forehead. Just what he needed – his brain reminding him of the fact that all of this was just his very own coma world. For once, the thought made him feel even more desolate than before.

  
  


'I can hear you,' he muttered tiredly, 'I can always hear you.'

  
  


'I know you can hear me, Sam, but you need to listen.'

  
  


A beat, a blink, then Sam's eyes widened suddenly. 'What? Wait... how can we be talking?' Fresh, desperate energy thrumming through him, Sam leaned forward, bracing himself against the desk. This had never happened before – this was his chance...! 'I need you to get me out of here.'

  
  


'We will. I understand your frustration, Sam. The job's almost done. Don't blow it now.'

  
  


Sam frowned – none of this was making sense. 'Job?'

  
  


The voice continued, unperturbed. 'Remember, if they find out why you're really there, you'll never make it back. Once we've dealt with it all, you can come home, Sam.'

  
  


The line went dead.

  
  


Sam stared ahead for a few moments, before suddenly snapping to action again, shaky fingers dialing through to the operator. Seconds later, he scribbled down a number.

  
  


Hyde 2612.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things settle back into place. Spans episodes 2.02-2.05 with little canon divergence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BABY WE'RE BACK! Seems like winter is my preferred fic writing time. I'm determined to finish this fic in the foreseeable future - and in fact, I only have one chapter left to write in full; the rest is just putting all the scenes together so that it all makes sense and flows nicely.  
> Beta'd as usual by the one and only talkingtothesky. <3

In the following days, Sam did his best to keep a low profile, to give Gene no reason to believe that Crane had actually told the truth. This was, in fact, far easier done than he had anticipated; the entire department was much more rattled by the fact that they now had a WDC in Annie, than to worry about allegations that a proven lunatic had thrown at their DI. Sam had a feeling that Gene was still watching him intently, but gradually, even that tension ceased, and things seemed to have gone back to normal.

  
  


Until Harry Woolf, Gene's former DCI, Chief Superintendent, well-respected member of the force, turned out to be nothing more than a crook, hungry for money he thought he deserved. It was a story Sam had read about far too often; this still was a dark chapter in the history of British policing, after all. When he had studied the cases as part of his training, he had felt nothing but disdain for all officers involved – even and especially those who allegedly hadn't had any idea of what had been going on.

  
  


It wasn't that simple now. Not as the echo of the gunshot still rang through Sam's head, as he had to watch Gene, hand shaking, his gaze fixed on his fallen mentor. There was pain in his voice like Sam had never heard before, and as he turned to radio for an ambulance, there was a shimmer of unshed tears in Gene's eyes.

  
  


**

  
  


'He taught me how to fly.'

  
  


Sam looked over at Gene in surprise – they'd been silent for the last few minutes, each of them concentrating on their drinks and thoughts. The pub had long but cleared out, even Nelson having left them to it as he often did.

  
  


'Woolf?'

  
  


Gene nodded, his gaze fixed on the amber liquid in his tumbler. He didn't look bothered, but Sam was slowly starting to learn to read between the lines, so to speak. And what Gene was saying made sense – he had told Sam that no one in his family had had wings, after all.

  
  


'Didn't know what to do with meself until then,' Gene continued, slowly putting down his glass. 'Only joined the force because everything else would've made me look like a coward. Woolf took me in.' He looked up at the ceiling, at nothing. 'Had my first proper airborne patrol on his watch. Just him and me, up there.'

  
  


Gene fell silent again. Sam himself said nothing for a little while, letting the whisky swirl slowly in his glass. Trying to imagine what it must have felt like... being up in the sky for the first time, seeing the city from an entirely different perspective. Finally, he looked over at Gene and quietly said, 'What happened today doesn't negate what happened back then.'

  
  


Gene gave a small huff. 'You say that... but it's tainted now, isn't it. Won't ever be able to forget...' He trailed off, lips drawn into a slight pout, staring out into the darkened room. Sam knew what he left unsaid. Of course it wasn't that easy, he understood that all too well.

  
  


'It wasn't your fault.'

  
  


'I should've realised though, shouldn't I.'

  
  


Sam shook his head. 'You had no reason to suspect him.'

  
  


Gene said nothing.

  
  


In the silence that settled, Sam's mind drifted off. He had said goodbye to Glen, and then... then he had called the number he had jotted down a few weeks ago. It had left him even more confused than he had been before.

  
  


_'You know the rules. I call you.'_

  
  


Sam was pulled back into the present by the clink of glass as Gene set his drink back down on the table. 'Time to hit the sack, eh. Need a lift?'

  
  


Sam was on the brink of declining – he liked walking through Manchester at night, and the pub wasn't all too far from his apartment – but something about the offer made him hesitate, think again. He nodded. 'Alright.'

  
  


**

  
  


Despite this huge upheaval, CID settled back into its regular pace fairly quickly. They received no more reinforcements from Hyde or any other station for a while, and the men got used to having Annie among their numbers – more than that, they began to accept and respect her.

  
  


The strange calls continued. It was the same man every time, voice calm, nearly to the point of being emotionless. It was strange. Sam should have been over the moon; the messages were positive, saying that the doctors were hopeful that he would pull through, come home very soon... And yet, Sam was left with a chill down his spine every time. Something just wasn't... _right_ , about all of this. But then again, what else was new?

  
  


Sam prevailed as best as he could, through a bomb crisis, the search for an alleged serial killer, and the worst reaction to a medical overdose in the history of mankind (at least, it felt that way). Sitting in that door-less room, having to watch the team – his team – on that tiny television... Sam knew that had to be a dream. A coma within a coma.

  
  


He knew that with such clarity because his wings were huge. And yet, they felt weightless. Sam didn't topple over even once, as he got up from the sofa and knelt down in front of the small TV set. So, it wasn't real, and he knew he had to wake up. He would wake up as soon as the case was over, as soon as Gene realised what they had overlooked, as soon as Annie realised what kind of danger she was in, as soon as...!

  
  


Sam breathed a sigh of relief as Gene wrestled Don Witham to the ground... then, a rush of excitement as the doctors finally piped up again, proclaiming that ten mils had done the trick. The perfect ten.

  
  


When he came to after the entire ordeal, it was to the sight of Annie's teary-eyed, relieved face. She pulled him into a tight hug, which Sam reciprocated somewhat groggily, but so infinitely glad to be back. Raising his gaze, he spotted Gene, standing in the doorway and watching them, cigarette in his hand. When he caught his eye the Guv nodded, apparently pleased that his DI had finally come to his senses again, and left before Annie could notice him.

  
  


**

  
  


After arresting Lamb, Gene insisted on driving Sam home. More than that, he followed his deputy up to his apartment, surveying it with a look of faint distaste before settling down in the armchair. In the cramped space of Sam's flat, Gene's wings looked even more imposing than usual, almost touching the ceiling even as he was sitting down.

  
  


'So. No more funny stuff?'

  
  


Sam smiled, having heard the very same words so many weeks ago. 'Hopefully not. Drugs should be out of my system now.'

  
  


Gene nodded, visibly pleased. 'Good. Keeping that lot in line on me own is bloody exhausting.'

  
  


'I thought you did a great job,' said Sam, lowering himself onto his rickety bed. He realised his mistake when Gene frowned in his direction, but before he could say anything, Sam hurried to add, 'Annie told me all about it.'

  
  


'Hm.' Gene still looked slightly suspicious, but ultimately let it go. He seemed to have mellowed slightly in general, ever since the Woolf incident – not in their everyday work life, but when they were on their own. He and Gene often found themselves in the pub long after everyone else had gone home, either talking, or simply sitting in silence. In a way, it was as though he was looking after Sam, watching over him. Maybe that was why Gene had been so adamant about driving Sam home.

  
  


'Well, s'pose you're right.'

  
  


Sam raised an eyebrow. 'Come on. You managed to catch the real perpetrator.'

  
  


'Bit too late for Don,' Gene quietly said, looking over at Sam. He had no answer to that. Gene was right, the damage had already been done. What remained of Graham Bathurst's childhood had been irreversibly ruined, his family in shambles. All that could have been avoided.

  
  


However, brooding over it wouldn't help – and it was unusual for Gene to dwell on the past like this. Sam was determined to pull him out of it. 'Not too late for all the girls you saved from a similar experience. It was good work, under pressure. You should be proud.'

  
  


Gene looked at him silently, wings drawn tight to his body. After a few seconds, he nodded, and heaved himself up.

  
  


'Right. If you're not going to faint again like the fairy you are, I'll be on my way.'

  
  


'What, were you hoping I'd faint on you?' Sam teased, unable to hide his grin. Maybe the drugs weren't quite out of his system yet after all. Gene looked at him askance, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

  
  


'You already did, you twonk.'

  
  


It was only when Gene closed the door behind him that Sam realised what he had implied. When he had blacked out in the office... Gene must have been the one to catch him. His Guv must have carried him into that back room. Despite the fact that Gene Hunt didn't 'carry people, not even scrawny gits like you', as he had put it.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the Peak District.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _not_ gonna say we're back on track, because I don't want to jinx it, BUT, I can say that I feel confident this fic will be finished by the end of the year. I'm really sorry for going MIA - college became much busier than I ever could have anticipated, and there simple was no time or energy for anything other than music making. However, I never forgot about this fic, and I have every intention to finish it. As I've said elsewhere, the epilogue is finished, and between this chapter and the epilogue, I only have 3-4 chapters to tie together, by which I mean to say, most of the key scenes are already written out! And now that I'm done with college forever, I hope I'll have the time this summer to finally finish up this story. Thank you so much everyone for sticking around through every hiatus - I'll do my best not to leave you hanging again, and to update soon.
> 
> Beta'd, as ever, by [talkingtothesky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky)! ♥
> 
> (This chapter covers episode 2.06, mostly sticking to canon!)

Sam could feel himself slipping away.

  
  


Maya had left him. Sam had never heard her talk to him up until the moment she said goodbye, but it sounded like she had been there by his side all this time. And while he had been panicking at first, begging her not to go... now, knowing that Ravi would pull through, Sam wasn't all too upset about Maya leaving any more, and that was what worried him. Was he losing his will to wake up? Was he losing his will to... live?

  
  


He didn't want to believe that. Sam felt more alive than ever, fighting through each day he spent in 1973. It was frustrating, maddening, left him exhausted – but it was _a life_ . And as humans tended to do, Sam had adjusted to it, had carved out a routine to follow. Making his everyday life as normal as possible had kept him sane (although he knew Gene would argue over the exact definition of 'sane' in regards to his DI).

  
  


Maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe he should never have accepted this reality. But then, what else was he supposed to do? It all felt too real. Sam found himself wondering about his colleagues' lives more and more. Chris had shown him the pictures of him and his girlfriend; Sam had overheard Phyllis talk to another WPC about the heavenly cake her sister-in-law had baked the other day. He and Annie had been to that Roxy Music concert, wandering down the canal for hours afterwards, and she had told him all about her brothers, and how she was the first child in her family to have finished university and earned a degree. Once, a woman had dropped by the station with her little daughter, only to reveal that she was Ray's sister, having come all the way from Scarborough for a visit. Seeing Ray play with the girl had been disturbingly heart-warming.

  
  


And Gene... The story of his brother had left Sam unsettled. Suddenly, Gene had a past. Of course he had talked about his time as a police officer before, but that was different, somehow. In this coma world of his, Sam had more or less assumed that his subconscious had constructed coppers out of Sam's own experiences, his mum's stories, and everything he had read about the 60s and 70s during his time at the academy. Following this premise, the people surrounding him had made sense (though it didn't make them any less maddening).

  
  


And the most caricature-like of them had been Gene Hunt, the corrupt, alcoholic, cantankerous, nicotine-addicted, sexist DCI. Truly, a character straight out of a late-night satire show. But Sam was beginning to learn that there was more to the man than that. He would never forget the picture he'd presented, lying next to Ravi in that hospital bed, relaxed and laughing heartily at the nurse's desperate attempt to scare them off. Drunk on whisky, they'd made their way home, laughing and joking. In hindsight, Sam realised that he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this relaxed and... happy.

  
  


The weekend after that, Gene took Sam on a day trip. They drove out of town toward the Peak District, right into the craggy-hilled heart of it. It was a blustery day, but sunny, and the wind felt heavenly as it stroked through Sam's feathers. They were far away from civilisation here – safe from prying eyes, Sam noted. Gene, stood next to the Cortina, spread his wings wide, drawing himself up to his full height as he took a deep breath. A particularly strong gust made his coat flap, and for a moment it looked as though he had two pairs of wings.

  
  


They walked a few hundred metres, until they stood at the top of a fairly steep slope. With a grunt, Gene lowered himself onto one of the many boulders lying around, and after a moment's hesitation Sam sat down next to him, gazing out at the rough landscape, peppered with flecks of sunlight and shadows from the clouds chasing each other across the sky. In that moment, it was as if time stood still. 1973, 2006 – Sam couldn't tell. They were in a timeless bubble.

  
  


The faint clink of Gene lighting his cigarette brought Sam back into the present, and he glanced over to see the other man releasing a stream of smoke from his lips.

  
  


'Good weather for flying,' Gene said, looking up at the clouds. Sam followed his gaze, trying to gauge just what Gene based that observation on – the wind seemed quite unpredictable... But then, heavy bodies like theirs did require a bit more force to stay up in the air, probably.

  
  


Christ, Sam didn't have a clue.

  
  


'Is that why we came out here?' He asked after a few moments, giving up on trying to contribute anything aviation-related to the conversation. Gene didn't respond directly, but his feathers rustled slightly as he moved his wings. Then, he nodded. 'I come out here for a good stretch every now and then. Perfect location for it.'

  
  


That made sense. While the landscape was quite exposed, Sam knew just as well as Gene did that the vast majority of people would think twice before driving this deep into the Peak District, when the superficially prettier sights were located closer to Manchester itself. And with weather like this, at a distance and against the light, Gene probably looked very much like a fat seagull or something.

  
  


Gene looked over with a raised eyebrow as Sam giggled at the image he'd conjured up in his mind. 'What's so funny?'

  
  


Sam grinned back at him. 'Nothing. I like it out here.' And he did. He truly did.

  
  


Gene kept his assessing gaze on Sam for a few seconds longer, before quirking his lips slightly and nodding, apparently satisfied.

  
  


'You come here often, you said?'

  
  


Gene nodded again. 'It's a good place. Not exactly convenient, but better than hopping off a factory and having the canal as a landing strip.' Sam couldn't help but agree silently – he hadn't imagined that Gene would go flying in the middle of the city that much, even though the Guv had assured him people would never notice if there was an airborne police patrol up in the sky. Out here was definitely the better option.

  
  


Comfortable silence stretched between them for a few minutes, each of the two lost in their own thoughts. Then, quietly, Gene murmured, 'Stu didn't die of an overdose.'

  
  


Sam raised his head in surprise. Gene wasn't looking at him, his gaze downcast.

  
  


'Oh?' Gene hadn't said anything about his brother's cause of death at the time, but with everything he had told Sam, it had been an easy conclusion to draw.

  
  


'Well. Not technically.' Gene's lips stuck out in a pout. 'They were the trigger alright.'

  
  


Sam remained silent, waiting for Gene to continue.

  
  


After a while, the man softly said, 'That stuff made him paranoid. Brought out all the... Well. The thing is, I think it was all a bit too much for him. The old man, and then those.' Gene's wings rose; a moment later, so did Sam's eyebrows. Hadn't Gene told him that apart from him, no one else in his family had been born with wings...? But then again, he hadn't mentioned Stu at all at the time.

  
  


'Didn't know what to do with them. Got in the way, and we couldn't get the hang of it.'

  
  


Silence fell again. Sam was itching to say something, encourage Gene to go on, but he knew he needed to give the man time.

  
  


After a little while, Gene sighed, deflating slightly. 'When I found him, he'd just cut them off.'

  
  


Sam froze.

  
  


Gene continued, 'I'd never seen that much blood before in my life. All over the floor. Couldn't have explained that to plod even if I'd tried. He didn't even recognise me any more. Little pills all over the shop.'

  
  


Gene shook his head, eyes fixed on something only he could see. 'Probably took them to numb the pain. Don't know if it worked.' Gene raised his hands, staring at his palms. 'I tried to stem the bleeding, but it just wouldn't stop. He was gone within minutes.'

  
  


Sam struggled to breathe; it felt like an invisible weight had settled on his chest. Usually he tried not to think about it, but now the memories came flooding back mercilessly: how he had taken the painkillers; how he had prepared the knife; how Gene had found him and talked him out of going through with his plan.

  
  


Jesus Christ.

  
  


The silence stretched on. Sam's throat was too tight for him to utter a single word. And what could he say? He was the last person who could comfort Gene on this, seeing as he had come this close to subjecting the man to the very same trauma. The scenes were replaying in his head -

  
  


_'You cut off your wings, you die. It's as simple as that. I've seen it happen.'_

  
  


_'Soon as you cut them off, you'll bleed to death faster than you can say 'flying piece of shit'.'_

  
  


Finally, his voice gone hoarse, Sam said, '… Jesus... I'm so sorry.'

  
  


He couldn't look at Gene, but he heard a quiet grunt of acknowledgement. Then Gene's voice, unusually soft. 'I don't dwell on the past, Sam. Does a man no good to do that.' He paused. 'But sometimes, you just can't help it, can you. If we'd had this spot – if I'd taken Stu out here...'

  
  


Sam finally forced himself to glance at Gene, who was staring down at the valley beneath them. His expression was unreadable.

  
  


'… if someone could've been arsed to show him how to fly. Would he have still done it?'

  
  


The question lingered in the space between them, unanswered.

  
  


After a little while, Gene shifted, pushed himself up and took a few steps towards the slope. Without turning around, he spoke, and Sam had to strain slightly to hear the words before the wind blew them away. 'The thing is, I'll never know. I'll never get a chance to show Stu.'

  
  


Gene spread his wings wide. Sam couldn't take his eyes off him.

  
  


Without warning, Gene set off, running down the hill and quickly disappearing from Sam's line of sight. Sam jumped up, made his way to the edge of the slope just in time to see it: Gene's wings flapped, the loud crack of it breaking the relative silence surrounding them, and then he was up in the air. Transfixed, Sam watched as Gene glided down the slope, then pulled up sharply, rising higher and higher. Soon he had to tilt his head back, both hand shielding his eyes against the sunlight. He had been right; from down here, Gene looked like a bird. Like a majestic eagle.

  
  


And as he watched Gene fly, Sam thought he was able to feel it. The sensation of complete freedom, the world stretching out far beneath him.

  
  


**

  
  


The sun had long set by the time Gene dropped Sam off at his flat. The drive had passed in silence; Sam had had too much to think about. The sight of Gene, soaring high above the Peak District, had filled him with a sense of peace, leaving him without words. And Gene had seemed content, his driving style less frenzied than usual.

  
  


'See you in the morning, then,' he said now, already reaching for his next cigarette.

  
  


Sam nodded and reached for the door handle – but then, he hesitated, finally deciding to turn around and look at Gene.

  
  


'… thank you.'

  
  


Gene glanced over at him. 'What for?'

  
  


Sam said nothing, still unable to put into words what he had experienced in the afternoon. After a few seconds, however, Gene seemed to understand, giving a short nod as his gaze softened. Sam got out of the car, his little wings spreading immediately. He was about to close the door, when Gene leaned over, looking him in the eye.

  
  


'Next time, it'll be you up there.'

  
  


Sam blinked, searching Gene's expression for a hint of mirth, but all he saw was calm, unshakable conviction. Before he was able to react, Gene reached out and pulled the door closed, and a moment later he backed away from the kerb, driving off into the evening.

  
  


The strangest thing, Sam reflected as he made his way inside, was the fact that he believed Gene.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Morgan thing happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter spans episodes 2.07 and 2.08 and goes for one last major canon divergence - from this point onward, it's all me, for better or worse!
> 
> Beta reading done, as ever, by the wonderful [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/profile). <3

Sam believed Gene when he'd said Sam was going to fly one day.

 

Why, then, had it been so hard at first to believe that Gene was not a killer?

 

Sam lay on the floor of his flat, listening to Gene snore away in his bed.  Why had he struggled to believe in Gene, even after everything they'd been through? Sure, he knew how impulsive his DCI was, and how quick to threaten bodily harm on anyone in his vicinity. But he should have known that there was a line Gene would never cross; not least because it was Sam who helped him find that line.

 

The answer, of course, was Frank Morgan.

 

Sam heaved a silent sigh.

 

DCI Frank Morgan, from Hyde. Sam had never seen him before in his entire life, and Morgan claimed the same. However, the way he had laid out his materials, the evidence, and set out the tape recorder like it was the most natural thing in the world - all that had unexpectedly caused the strongest feeling of homesickness and melancholy. Here was a man after his own heart, upholding discipline even in the dark ages of policing. His soft-spoken voice and flawlessly articulated sentences were like a balm to Sam's ears. Morgan had immediately ordered the desks to be cleaned and rearranged, and although the sight did feel wrong, somehow, Sam couldn't claim that he wasn't enjoying the change of pace. Even Morgan's wings looked very similar to Sam's – they were jetblack, folded tightly and neatly along the man's spine at all times. Sam couldn't make out individual feathers, which was slightly odd; but then, who was he to question another man's wings? His own weren't any less odd, with their light-absorbing feathers and the obvious size problem. The fact that Morgan's wings stood out from the others Sam had seen so far only lead him to feel even more drawn to the man. Someone who was as adamant about procedure as that would surely unearth the truth about this case quickly.

 

And yet, those methods that Sam trusted and relied on so much had done nothing but tighten the proverbial noose around Gene's neck. He had so strongly believed that, with Morgan's guidance, they would prove their DCI's innocence within a matter of hours; the opposite had been the case. And now, Gene had roped him in to go off on an investigation of their own, behind Frank Morgan's back.

 

Why did that feel so _right_?

 

Sam turned onto his side, closing his eyes. He had to get some sleep. Gene couldn't remember anything about that night, so Sam had to be his memory, and for that, he needed a clear head. Gene trusted him, after all.

 

**

 

After that case was done, Sam thought he'd never see Frank Morgan again. He was proven wrong that same evening.

 

_'We're all proud of you. Not your fault Hunt wriggled out of it. Good opportunity, but... Hang in there, Sam. Soon as we can, we'll sort this out. Bring you back home.'_

 

Then, the next morning, he heard the voices again. The doctors, telling him about the tumour. His mum, telling him to be strong. And as if that wasn't enough, the phone rang before Sam had a chance to stop his mind from reeling.

 

It was Morgan.

 

_'The sooner we complete the operation, the sooner you can come home. You must destroy Gene Hunt and his whole rotten department.'_

 

**

 

Had all of this happened weeks ago – before Crane, before Vic Tyler; before Warren – Sam would have sprung into action without a second thought. Finally, there it was, the magic key he'd been waiting for so long.

 

Destroy Gene Hunt, along with the whole of A-Division, and he would be able to go home.

 

Morgan's words had chilled Sam to the bone. They did make a sick kind of sense, within the context of his coma – but what if there was more to it? What if this wasn't just Sam's world? What if...

 

… what if all of it was real?

 

A ridiculous thought, and yet, Sam couldn't let go of it. If destroying Gene meant destroying a real person's life... was that really a price he was willing to pay to get what he desired?

 

**

 

Even when Gene began setting up the operation to catch the cop killer, Leslie Johns, Sam couldn't get Morgan's words out of his head. It made him even more irritable in the face of the Guv's recklessness. Going undercover was one thing, but enlisting only four detectives, three of whom completely lacked specialist training, to carry out a highly risky swap, was getting terribly close to serious negligence. But as per usual, Gene wouldn’t listen to him, too focused on nailing Johns once and for all. Maybe it was that dissatisfaction, and his fear for the lives of his colleagues that made Sam set up the tape machine, hidden on a shelf in Lost and Found as Ray and Gene laid into their suspect for details of Johns’ planned blag. Yes, that had to be it. Those dreams he’d had of late - hearing his friends scream, scream his name, as gunshots rang out - spurred him on to stay awake late into the night, writing up transcripts of his secret recording sessions.

 

Sam had a plan. He would argue in Gene’s favour - convince Morgan to just get him suspended (and honestly, knowing the state of play around here, that was the worst that could happen to Gene anyway). They seemed to have good rapport, so he was confident he could pull it off. Gene would be furious, of course… but better furious and alive than cold and dead. And either way, Sam wouldn’t even be there to witness any of it. Once the operation was called off, he was out. Morgan had said it himself: if Sam could pull this off, he could go back home.

 

And in the end, none of this was real. Somehow, the thought wasn’t as comforting anymore as it had been all those weeks and months since his arrival, but Sam still clung to it. If it was real, he would do the entire department a favour, he was sure of it. And if not… it was nothing to do with him either way. And he could finally go home.

 

**

 

The meeting with Morgan didn’t go as Sam had planned it.

 

Staring at the grave that bore his name, all he could say, all he could _think,_ was, no.

 

_No_.

 

**

 

Crouched in the dimly lit office, the letters on the page in his hand blurred. Sam pressed a hand against his mouth, failing to suppress a strangled sob.

 

His name. On transfer from C Division in Hyde.

 

Signed by DCI Frank Morgan.

 

‘Sam.’

 

Sam didn’t move. Morgan’s voice wafted around him, enveloped him as he spoke softly.

 

‘I'm so impressed, Sam. With everything that's happened ... you've done your job, you've held it together, you've earned their respect. Once we're done with all this, we take control of A Division, police it progressively. You'll be working right alongside me.’

 

He’d come a little closer.

 

‘That's what you've always wanted.’

 

Sam closed his eyes, huffed out a breath - anguished, half a sob and half a humourless laugh.

 

‘... what I’ve… always wanted…’

 

What he always wanted was to… to go home...

 

Again, Morgan’s voice was closer than before.

 

‘Running the city the right way.’

 

Sam’s eyes opened again and he stared down at the grimy floor. He drew his hand across his face, wiping at the tears in a weak attempt to pull himself together.

 

‘If this is real… then Gene has a _life_.’

 

The worst case scenario. Sam almost couldn’t bring himself to ask the question that had to follow that realisation.

 

‘What’s going to happen to him?’

 

Morgan’s reply came immediately, the words hitting like so many bullets.

 

‘He’ll be pensioned off.’

 

Sam had to close his eyes against the pain in his chest. For an endless moment he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he shook his head. As if in a dream he stood up, turning to finally face Morgan. The other man was standing mere feet away, observing Sam intently.

 

Sam’s voice sounded foreign to his own ears as he spoke.

 

‘It’ll kill him.’

 

Morgan’s gaze was sharp.

 

‘Hang in there, Sam. I need you.’

 

Sam shook his head again, helpless in the face of such emotional pain. How was he supposed to choose between his own happiness and that of his team, his _friend_ , knowing that they… all of this… was real?

 

Morgan moved in again, standing next to Sam all of a sudden. His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. ‘And you can still have what you want. You can still go home.’

 

Which home? C Division in Hyde wasn’t his home… God, none of this made sense…!

 

‘To people who appreciate you,’ Morgan continued, reaching out as if to lay his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam turned away, leaning against the filing cabinet as he pressed his hand against his mouth again.

 

‘I need more time… I can’t think--!’

 

Tears prickled in his eyes once more and he grimaced, trying to hold them back. Had he just imagined it all - the hospital voices, the little girl in red, his mum… his past, the future, his _life_ …? It wasn’t possible, _couldn’t_ be--

 

Morgan moved soundlessly, suddenly appearing right behind Sam once more. ‘You can’t uphold the law by breaking it. It’s what you’ve always said.’ His voice became urgent, imploring. ‘Gene Hunt is breaking the law. He’s a man building his own gallows. All we're doing is… handing him the wood.’

 

Christ. If Gene was real, and all the others as well… then, if the operation went ahead tomorrow, they were in _real_ danger.

 

Sam murmured as if in a trance, ‘We can’t let him put those officers in danger…’

 

There was a rustling sound, and moments later, Sam turned to see Morgan holding out a black mobile radio to him. ‘Here. The latest thing.’

 

His eyes were boring into Sam’s, pinning him in place, hypnotising. Sam felt himself reach out and take the radio with cold fingers.

 

‘You just say the word, and we can be there with full armed backup to get your officers out safely.’

 

Sam stared back, his brain struggling to keep up. ‘And then?’

 

Morgan’s expression betrayed no emotion. ‘And then we arrest DCI Hunt for gross professional negligence and corruption.’

 

Arrest Gene. For a moment, Sam could see it all play out. The four of them in the train, one of the blaggers’ guns pointed at Chris… Forcing Gene to break cover… a horrible shoot-out following… then, Morgan’s men coming in, overwhelming Johns and his gang… and putting handcuffs on Gene, manhandling him away from Sam and the others…

 

Visiting Gene in the cells…

 

Watching the trial, testifying… Doing his best to assert Gene’s good character…

 

Gene getting off with a dishonourable discharge of some sort. Spending his days alone and angry, drinking more and more…

 

… and then, following Harry Outhwaite’s example…

 

All those images flashed through Sam’s mind in a matter of moments, but they left him with the utter certainty that he was right.

 

This would kill Gene.

 

Throat tight, Sam shook his head, fresh tears dripping down his cheeks. ‘No.’

 

Morgan cocked his head slightly. ‘Sam?’

 

Sam took a shaky breath. “I… I can’t. I can’t do this to him. There has to be another way… Frank, I can’t destroy his life.’ _Not when he saved my life so many times._

 

Morgan stilled, remaining silent for a few moments - moments during which the entire world seemed to hold still, holding its breath. Then, he quietly said, ‘Sam. This is what we’ve been working towards for so long. You were the one who recommended Gene Hunt as our target. Don’t you remember?’

 

That revelation should have shocked Sam, but he didn’t have it in him, not when everything else had already drained him. So he merely shook his head again. ‘I-- I don’t care. Things have changed. I think-- I think Hunt could learn. I’m certain I’ve managed to influence him already--’

 

‘You know it doesn’t work that way,’ Morgan interrupted. ‘We both arrived at that conclusion.’

 

Sam huffed out a pained breath, closing his eyes.

 

‘... I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t sacrifice him for my own happiness.’

 

There were a few moments of silence. Then, Morgan’s cold voice sliced through it.

 

‘Then those officers will die tomorrow.’

 

Sam’s eyes snapped open. ‘No--!’

 

But Morgan was gone. All that was left of his presence was the black radio, clutched in Sam’s hand.

 

**

 

For hours, Sam tried to reach Gene. He tried the pub, called his home address. Nothing. Maybe he was out, but no matter how often Sam tried - even going so far as to drive to Gene’s home and ringing the bell for minutes on end - the Guv wasn’t answering, was nowhere to be found.

 

Finally, exhaustion slowing his footsteps, he made his way back to the station. Sooner or later, Gene was bound to show up here, Sam was sure of it. Tomorrow was the day he was supposed to go undercover for good, after all. They'd agreed to meet for a final briefing. And that was Sam’s last chance to stop all of this… Although he didn’t quite know yet how he was going to explain himself.

 

Instead of Gene, however, Sam was met with the sight of Annie. Her face brightened as she turned to face him.

 

‘Oh, good! I couldn’t get a hold of you, so I was worried you wouldn’t show up… Sam?’

 

He must have been looking at her as though she was a ghost. Sam blinked, tried to shake himself out of it.

 

‘Sorry, I… uh… why were you--?’

 

It was Annie’s turn to look somewhat confused. ‘Didn’t you get the message? The Guv--’

 

Before she was able to continue, the doors to the office opened, and Ray walked in, followed by Chris.

 

‘Boss! You made it!’

 

Sam stared back at them. What on earth was going on? What did they know that he didn’t…? But no, there was no time to worry about that. If they knew where Gene was, then he stood a chance to save all their lives after all. He pulled himself together.

 

‘This sting… is madness. I’m stopping it. We shouldn’t be going in there like this - I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

 

Ray frowned. ‘Too late. Guv went to see Johns earlier. He’s undercover now.’

 

For a moment, Sam thought he’d misheard. ‘Earlier--? That-- that wasn’t part of the plan!’

 

‘Got itchy feet I suppose,’ Chris said with a shrug.

 

All colour drained from Sam’s face. Oh god, why-- why _now_?! And why hadn’t Gene talked to him about this sudden change beforehand--! Equal parts fear and indignation rising within him, he threw his hands in the air. ‘See?! This is exactly the kind of thing we’re trying to stop!’

 

He was met with momentary silence. Then Chris asked, ‘Who’s trying to stop?’

 

Oh, Jesus. Suddenly, Sam found himself faced with three very confused colleagues, waiting for him to tell them exactly what was going on. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go…! Struggling for words, he stammered for a few seconds before managing to actually get the words out.

 

‘I-- Turns out, I’m working in conjunction with C Division in Hyde.’

 

Chris looked at him blankly. ‘Boss?’

 

‘Wh-- how do you mean, _turns out_?’ Annie asked, although there was something in her voice, her expression, that suggested something was dawning on her. Sam looked at her helplessly. He hadn’t wanted them to find out this soon - especially when he was still not sure he completely understood the situation himself - when there were more important things to do. Morgan’s last words were still at the forefront of Sam’s mind, constantly feeding the acidic feeling of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

 

‘I’m sorry, but I-- I can’t go into detail right now. What matters is that we mustn’t go through with this, or we’ll all be in grave danger--’

 

‘Hang on. You-- you’ve been spying on us? For that bastard Morgan?’ Ray cut through Sam’s sentence, his voice loud and incredulous.

 

Sam, eyes wide, looked over at him, his mouth snapping shut, momentarily speechless. He couldn’t even deny the accusation - he _had_ been gathering evidence during those last few days, after all… but--!

 

He began to stutter, trying to explain, ‘N… no, I…’

 

But it was too late. Ray’s expression turned dark, his cheeks reddening with anger. ‘All this time. I knew it. I bloody knew it!’

 

Shit… shit! Sam took a step forward, his heart pounding, wings spreading as if to bolster his argument. ‘I’m trying to save lives here-- I’m not your enemy!’

 

But Ray shot back, getting right up in Sam’s personal space, ‘Cut the crap! You’ve been our enemy since day one!’

 

Sam took a step backwards, raising his palms defensively. ‘Look, we don’t have time for this-- the Guv’s in danger, we have to pull him out before it’s too late!’

 

They weren’t listening. Chris looked between Ray and Sam wide-eyed; Annie’s face was pale as she stared at Sam. It was she who asked, ‘How do you know that?’

 

‘DCI Morgan, he told me…’

 

That was the wrong thing to say, Sam realised the moment the words were out. Chris stared at him incredulously. ‘You told him about the mission? No one outside of CID’s supposed to know!’

 

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Annie cut in, ‘Sam, how could you--?! That’s against regulations! What if--’

 

Just then, the phone on Sam's desk rang.

 

Everyone froze, which meant they could hear it as well. The realisation sent a chill down Sam’s spine. He turned around to look at the phone, then looked back at the team again, just to make sure. Ray was glaring at Sam like he wanted to strangle him with the phone chord. Annie's eyes were on the telephone itself.

 

The ringing persisted. Sam finally picked up the receiver, slowly – it felt as though a sudden movement would provoke the others to launch themselves at him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Annie pick up one of the other phones, Ray and Chris milling around her to listen in.

 

'Hello?' His voice nearly cracked.

 

' 'Ello, copper.'

 

Sam's blood ran cold.

 

'Who's this?' he asked, although there could be no doubt as to whose voice was now chuckling down the line.

 

'Don't play dumber than you are. Listen here – your little plan's busted. We've got your DCI.'

 

Sam couldn’t breathe. Gene. _Gene_. Somehow, he managed to force out words.

 

'What do you want?'

 

'Nothing. Just wanted to let you know. Teach y'all a lesson. I'll be sending him back to you alright, don't you worry.' Johns paused. 'S'gonna take a few packages, though.'

 

The line went dead.

 

Sam didn't even have time to react before strong hands grabbed his lapels and spun him around, pushing him backwards until his back collided with a wall.

 

'This is your fault!' Ray yelled, his face close to Sam's, eyes blazing. Sam was reeling still – _not Gene, how did that happen, it wasn't supposed to go like that_ – but he reacted instinctively, blocking the incoming punch with his upper arm.

 

'I didn't--'

 

'Shut up! That's what you wanted from the start, wasn't it, get rid of the Guv and take his place!' Ray shook him violently. 'You killed him! You bloody--'

 

Sam grit his teeth. This was all so wrong, it wasn't what he'd wanted – he'd wanted to go home, he _hadn't_ wanted to destroy his friends' lives, least of all Gene's. And now, this; how on earth did Johns find out about Gene being undercover? It had been a dangerous plan, but it had been going well enough, so what had happened for their Guv to be caught...?!

 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Sam noticed a figure – Frank Morgan, standing in the door frame and looking over at him before turning away and walking down the corridor. Sam wrestled free of Ray's grip and dashed out of the office before anyone could stop him.

 

He could hear echoing footsteps as he ran down the hallway, and he called out, 'Morgan!' It was getting dark around him, so that when Sam turned the corner he very nearly ran into the man. Sam jerked back with a startled gasp, staring up at Morgan's face, mostly cast in shadow.

 

'What's going on? What did you do?!'

 

Morgan's voice was eerily calm. 'Hunt was doomed to fail. I merely sped up the process.'

 

'You...' Sam's eyes widened with horror as it dawned on him. 'It... it was you... You ratted him out...' He took a step back, gazing at the man who was standing before him, hardly showing a reaction to Sam's words. He didn't deny it.

 

Sam felt bile rising at the back of throat. This couldn't be happening... He'd trusted Morgan...

 

'You can't... You can't just...!' Sam's eyes started to burn. ' _He's going to die!’_

 

At this, Morgan's usually so tightly folded wings began to move in the shadows. Meanwhile, the man’s face remained expressionless. 'An unfortunate side effect. Still, it rids us of the main problem. With this, Hunt's entire team is finished. It's the result we wanted, Sam.' The wings kept moving, _creaking_ , unfolding slowly.

 

'What?!' Sam's mind was spinning, he was breathing hard, panicking. And yet, he couldn't move, couldn't go back to the office, do something to help Gene... All he was able to do was stare at Morgan, stare as the wings started to spread, and they looked so _wrong_...

 

'Congratulations, Sam.'

 

Anything Sam might have said died on his tongue as his thoughts went blank at the sight before him.

 

Morgan's wings were all bones and claws and leather, slowly filling out the hallway from wall to wall, filtering what little light was left, casting an eerie red glow over Sam. Morgan started to walk towards him with measured steps, and although everything inside Sam was screaming at him to run, _run_ , he remained glued to the spot.

 

'You can go home now.'

 

The red glow intensified, became brighter, brighter, starting to hurt Sam's eyes.

 

'They're all waiting for you.'

 

Morgan was just a few inches away from him, the wings creaking horribly, and Sam still couldn't look away, the sight filling him with unspeakable dread, the words making him despair.

 

'No...'

 

The light flared, and finally Sam was forced to close his eyes.

 

And the world slipped away.

 

… beep... _beep_....

 

' _He's waking up._ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm not gonna promise anything this time. I'll just tell you there isn't much left to do here, and I am DETERMINED to finish this fic this year. I have three chapters left to finished and tie together. WISH ME LUCK.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is back home. Or is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, albeit different from that particular section in the episode, contains SPOILERS for the final bit of episode 2.08. You've been warned!

When Sam woke up in 2006, it was Morgan’s face that greeted him. Everything was too bright, sounds were too loud, and even the air felt too sharp against his skin; at the same time, Sam’s entire body felt numb, his mind fuzzy and slow.

 

He thought he could make out his mother’s face, a hand pressed against her mouth as she watched him open his eyes. Morgan said they hadn’t been able to remove the tumour, but it was now completely benign.

 

Sam closed his eyes again.

 

**

 

He recovered slowly, but steadily. The scar from the surgery was surprisingly small, and once the patch of shorn off hair grew back, his fringe would cover the incision entirely. Morgan checked back regularly, updating Sam on how his recovery was progressing.

 

It took Sam several days to notice that Morgan’s wings weren’t there. He was a completely normal person here, in the present. Sam didn’t dare to ask him about them.

 

His mum was there as often as she possibly could. The relief in her eyes every time she looked at him, every time he made a sound to acknowledge what she was saying, or asked a follow-up question - it was touching, painfully so. She was so, so happy to have her son back.

 

Maya never showed up. Neither did his colleagues. The only other people Sam interacted with were the nurses and his physiotherapist, whose task was to help him regain enough strength to be able to walk again. Sam followed her instructions without complaining. 

 

In fact, he didn’t talk much altogether. He was never rude to anyone - to the contrary, he took great care to be as polite as he could be, to thank the hospital staff for their help. But he never said more than was strictly necessary. 

 

If he did, Sam feared that he might give away the turmoil in his mind.

 

What had happened to Gene? Did he survive? Did the team manage to find him? How could Morgan be in two places, two  _ times _ at once? Had Sam simply disappeared without a trace, leaving a baffled CID?

 

Had he imagined everything?

 

Whenever that question came up, Sam did his best to stop thinking, because it made his head and chest ache. If he had imagined everything… How could it have felt so real? So engaging, so independent from his mind.

 

If it was imagined, how was it that he felt sorrow and gut-wrenching anxiety for all these people - for Gene’s fate?

 

Whenever the nurses asked Sam how he was sleeping, he lied to them (they could probably tell, but Sam didn’t care). His sleep was never undisturbed; he’d wake up, heart beating hard, having dreamt of Gene’s demise; a traumatised Annie, wasting away alone; Ray, drinking himself to death; Chris, poor Chris, unable to cope with it all…

 

Sometimes, it was Warren who haunted his dreams. Smiling down at Sam, breaking his little wings, over and over and  _ over _ … And once or twice, Sam woke up with the vision of himself burned in his mind - slumped in the corner of a tiled room, blood and black feathers spread out around him in a large puddle, broken eyes staring down at a bloodied cleaver.

 

But most of all, it was Gene who occupied Sam’s dreams and nightmares alike. How could that be? How could someone who was a figment of his imagination seem so  _ alive? _

 

That question plagued Sam every minute of every day that he had to spend lying in his private ward. But he didn’t say a word about it.

 

**

  
  


After he was released from hospital, it took Sam a good few weeks before he was able to work up the energy (courage, rather) to visit the police archives in the Northern Quarter. It was a part of the city he found both soothing and unnerving, combining Manchester's modern look with the old warehouses and narrow alleyways almost too perfectly for comfort. He stopped for a while at one of the corners, knowing that it was achingly familiar. They'd been on a stakeout right here. They'd chased a young car thief down that road there...

 

Sam averted his gaze and continued on his way to the archives. A polite elderly police officer (didn't Sam recognize him? Hadn't he last seen him wearing a PC's uniform, bright red ears sticking out from underneath the helmet?) showed him down to the shelves, folder upon folder of Manchester police history, waiting to be trawled. At first, he merely stood in the middle of the room, trying to gather his thoughts. He'd had a plan, where had that gone?

 

Eventually, Sam moved, starting to look for the section containing cases from the seventies. He'd half expected the archives to be a mess, like the Collator's had been, but no – he quickly found what he was looking for. Heart thudding painfully in his chest, Sam carried several folders over to the reading desks, and began his search.

 

It didn't take long to find what he was looking for – a single newspaper clipping, hidden among other reports and some personal accounts (some of them written in handwriting Sam could swear he'd seen before).

 

_ 'Manchester. It is our sad duty to report that in the afternoon of July the 15th, DCI Gene Hunt of the Greater Manchester police force was killed while on active duty. In pursuit of known criminal and cop killer, Leslie Johns, DCI Hunt had led an undercover operation, which ultimately failed, and the DCI met his untimely end. Controversial throughout his life, he will still be missed. Superintendent Rathbone has expressed his utmost sympathy to DCI Hunt's department, which is now left in the capable hands of acting DCI Frank Morgan...' _

 

Sam fled the archive, only barely making it out onto the pavement before he collapsed against a wall and threw up.

 

**

 

He didn't sleep that night. He lay on his side, staring at the brick wall of his converted flat.

 

Gene had died, just like Johns had said he would. There had been no details in that article, but the criminal's threats were still ringing in Sam's ears.

 

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tightly, causing a few tears to roll down his cheeks. Why hadn't he done anything to prevent it? Why had he trusted Morgan in the first place? He hadn't wanted any of that world to be real, but now he had undeniable proof. Gene Hunt, Annie Cartwright – all of them, they all had existed.

 

And he, in his arrogance and ignorance, had destroyed their lives.

 

**

 

Sam went back to the archive.

 

There had to be more than just that clipping. Annie would have made sure to produce a report of what had happened... Then again, from what Morgan had said, he would probably have been keen to keep as much under wraps as possible... Sam's head was aching as he went through all the possibilities in his mind, feverishly looking through the folders of reports. The one he was looking for wasn't to be found in the same folder as the newspaper article, but that didn't deter Sam. These had been the seventies, after all, mistakes were bound to have happened.

 

Of course, he could just as well try and find out whether any of the others were still alive... But something kept Sam from doing that. He had no idea how any of what happened had been possible – travelling back in time like he had to assume he had – and who even knew if they would recognise him?

 

Besides, Sam didn't trust himself not to break down in front of any of them. The thought of seeing Annie, old and faded... Ray, who would probably still hold a grudge against him... No, it was too much to bear. Sam couldn't take that step.

 

**

 

It took a few days, but finally,  _ finally _ , Sam found the report, with the help of the same polite retired officer who had let him in the first time. He had indeed been around during the early seventies, although if he thought he recognised Sam, he didn't show it.

 

Once again Sam sat at one of the desks, a mug of tea beside him as he opened the file and began to read.

 

There were no details on what had happened to Gene, and how exactly he had met his end. Cause of death was given as 'blunt force trauma', but no photographs of the injuries were attached to the file. Sam could only guess at what that meant for the state of Gene's body when they had finally found it. The thought made him feel sick all over again.

 

What the report did give him, however, was information on  _ where _ Gene was found: Outside of a warehouse located up the Rochdale canal. To be precise, forensics determined that he had been pushed off the roof of that very building. 

 

That gave Sam pause. He read over the entire report again, to make sure he hadn't misread. But there it was, black on off-white. The exact location of where Gene most likely was murdered.

 

Sam looked up without really seeing what was in front of him. He had that information now...

 

He could prevent this.

 

Could he?

 

**

 

Once again, he found himself on that roof - the roof of the police station. Sam's useless wings were spread out to their entire, frankly pathetic length. He'd moved just a few steps away from the ladder before he had to stop, standing rooted to the spot. 

 

Sam knew what he was hoping to achieve, but just like the first time he had planned to do this, it was one thing to make the decision, and another entirely to carry it out. The fabric of his shirt was scratching uncomfortably against his neck as he turned his head, studying the cityscape of Manchester beneath him. The city was noisy, but at the same time, it sounded hollow and empty to Sam. He  _ felt _ hollow and empty.

 

He hadn't had a choice, back then, in 1973. And yet, Sam knew that he had abandoned them – his team.  _ Gene _ .

 

He had talked to his mum the day before, vaguely, about a promise he hadn't exactly given, but that he felt he had broken nonetheless. That there was someone who needed him, that he might be able to fix a colossal mistake he had made. She had put her hand on his, looked him in the eye and gently said, 'You don't need to fix anything, Sam. You did nothing wrong.'

 

He had tried to smile at her, but it had fallen flat. If he went through with his plan, she would be devastated. She'd already nearly lost her son once... and now it would be for good.

 

Would it, though?

 

Sam rubbed his temple, closing his eyes. This was too confusing. He had no idea what was going to happen. He had left his mother a note all the same, doing his best to explain without giving away too much. She didn't need to think that on top of everything else, her son had gone insane. But he had tried to make it clear that he wasn't choosing death.

 

No, it wasn't that at all.

 

He was simply choosing a different life. He didn't know if it was going to work, and if he would be able to prevent the catastrophe from happening, but he had to at least  _ try _ . Gene would never forgive him if Sam didn't go through all the available options.  _ Sam _ wouldn't forgive himself.

 

Suddenly, Sam remembered that look Gene had given him, eons ago, when Crane's goons had been about to toss both of them off the roof. He hadn't understood it back then, had been too panicked.

 

Now, just like that, Sam  _ knew _ .

 

' _ I'll catch you. _ '   
  


Sam lowered his head with a soft snort, smiled wearily.

 

Maybe he really would. Or maybe, it was now Sam's turn to catch Gene.

 

Sam looked up again, his eyes fixing on the railing at the far edge of the roof. His heart was beating so hard that it felt like it was going to break through his rib cage any moment. Sam's hands were sweating, and when he took the first step, he felt his legs shaking, nearly losing his footing. Everything inside him protested, and yet, Sam kept walking. His wings spread even further, started flapping of their own accord as Sam sped up. Started jogging. Finally broke into a run.

 

His shoe connected with the railing. Sam spread his arms like a second pair of wings as he pushed himself off the metal with all his strength, catapulting his body up into the air. He could feel his actual wings beating frantically,  _ desperately _ as gravity started to pull him down mercilessly –

  
And yet, Sam smiled widely, excitedly, because he was finally  _ flying _ , even if it meant flying towards cold, grey concrete, and any moment now, he would hit –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Two more chapters, plus an epilogue that was finished ages ago. Two more updates. We can do this.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Sam's plan of saving Gene work?
> 
> ... yes. Of course it will. I don't like death fic, after all!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT FOLKS!!! The fic is done, and I'm uploading the remaining chapters right now. Stay tuned!
> 
> Beta, as per usual, by the wonderful [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/). ♥

Sam stumbled, fell to his knees and elbows. His heart was racing out of control, wings shivering with exertion, and for a few seconds, he could do nothing but gasp and stare at the ground in front of him without really seeing it.

 

Then, gradually, he became aware of his surroundings.

 

The delicate chain dangling around his neck. The air heavy with smoke. His feet stuck in heeled boots.

 

_It had worked_.

 

Slowly, Sam heaved himself up until he was standing on his feet, his legs still somewhat unsteady. He was back at the station. How much time had passed since-? Sam spun around, half expecting Frank Morgan to be standing behind him, but the hallway was empty. The thought reminded him, and his hands shot up to his jacket - and indeed, that rectangular shape in its inner pocket could only be that of the black radio he had been given.

 

For a few seconds, Sam didn't move, his mind still needing to process what had happened. He was back, but was he really where he needed to be?

 

Only one way to find out.

 

Nervous energy thrumming through him, Sam made his way down the hallway, back to the office. As he walked, he noticed how unnaturally _quiet_ it was. A shiver ran down his spine – what if he was too late? If everything had gone down already and the officers were in mourning... He passed a deserted locker room, and suddenly another thought entered his mind: What if he had somehow landed in a reality that simply was... empty? All the buildings still there, but humans gone. His situation already defied logical explanation, so who could tell... Christ, no, he couldn't think like that.

 

Heart hammering away in his chest, Sam pushed open the double doors to A-Division's office space – and stopped in his tracks, all his fears breaking down over him as the room stretched out before him. Empty.

 

Then, a disbelieving voice.

 

'Boss?'

 

Sam whirled around, his eyes going wide. Off to the side, sitting at a desk equipped with maps, a massive radio and several telephones, was Phyllis, of all people. Sam could have kissed her.

 

'Phyllis. You have no idea how good--'

 

'Stuff it.' The coldness in her voice hit him like a punch to the gut, and he almost staggered backwards. Shit. That wasn't what he had hoped for. And before he could find words to defend himself, she continued, getting up from her chair and stalking towards him, 'You have the bloody gall to just strut back in as if nothing happened –'

 

'Phyllis, please –'

 

'– Ray's gonna have your testies chopped off and quartered and fed back to you, and right now I have half a mind –'

 

'– _Phyllis_ –'

 

' – don't you _Phyllis_ me!' She jabbed at Sam's chest, and although that didn't exactly help his overall state of physical and mental exhaustion, he took that opportunity to blurt out, 'I need you to tell me how much time's passed since Johns called.'

 

She probably would have punched him if the radio hadn't gone off at exactly that moment. It was Chris' crackling voice.

 

'No sign of the Guv. Any news?'

 

'You could say that,' Phyllis said, glaring at Sam – but he wasn't listening any more. They were still looking for Gene... so not much time could have passed. That fact alone was enough to make his mind reel. He'd just spent _months_ back home, recovering and trying to figure everything out, and all that time had translated to maybe an hour here.

 

However, that also meant that his plan was working to a t so far. He had a real chance of saving Gene.

 

'I know where he is.'

 

Phyllis looked up at him abruptly. 'You what?'

 

'Is that the boss?' Chris' voice almost cracked at the end, and a moment later a struggle seemed to break out on the other end of the line. Then, it was Ray who was shouting into the radio. 'You bloody coward-- '

 

Sam interrupted, having circled the table and grabbed the microphone. 'Victoria Mills. There's a warehouse at the end of the compound, unused. That's where they're holding him. Get everyone to surround the building, but don't go rushing in willy-nilly – Johns won't be alone.'

 

There was a pause. Then Ray hissed, 'And why the hell should we believe a traitor, eh? How do you even know that? Did your buddy Morgan tell you?'

 

Sam grit his teeth in desperation – he couldn't do this on his own, he needed the team to work with him. To trust him. It was a lot to ask, but there was no other option. He glanced at Phyllis, who had gone pale and was staring at him tight-lipped, her feathers ruffled and spiked up, but so far she wasn't making any attempt to retrieve the microphone from him.

 

He turned his attention back to the radio and said, 'Listen – I messed up. I know that, and you can kick seven shades of shit out of me later, if it'll make you feel better. Right now, we need to find Gene. I did the research, I know that I've got the right information. _Any_ information is better than what you have right now, which is nothing.'

 

'How do we know this isn't another one of your lies?' Ray shot back.

 

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. 'You don't. But you have my word that I'll do whatever it takes to get the Guv back – even if I have to do it on my own.' He couldn’t stop his voice from wavering slightly. They all knew he wouldn’t stand much of a chance against Johns on his own.

 

Tense silence. Sam exhaled, gathered himself.

 

'Rochdale canal, Victoria Mills. The unused warehouse at the northern end.'

 

He handed the microphone back to Phyllis. Before he could turn to leave, however, she grabbed his arm, holding him back. 'You can't just walk away – not again.'

 

'I'm not,' Sam said, tugging against her grip. 'I – I wasn't lying. I _know_ where Gene is.'

 

‘How?’ Phyllis immediately asked, her voice and gaze sharp as a knife.

 

Sam stared back at her, struggling to keep his composure - he knew it mattered to them, knew it was hard for the team to regain their trust in him so quickly, but how could he possibly explain?!

 

Suddenly, bitterness and desperation clawing at him, Sam said, ‘I’m a spy, aren’t I? It can go both ways.’ With that, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the black radio, pressing it into Phyllis’ hand. He had no use for it - and if anyone could get any use out of it, find a way to get back at Morgan (if the man indeed still existed here), it would be her.

 

Phyllis blinked; it was enough for Sam to break away from her and leave the office, running down the hallway to get to the stairs. He had so much to do, and so little time.

 

**

 

First, he signed a gun out of the weapon depot, thanking whatever luck he still had left that the clerk was more or less asleep and had heard nothing of the commotion upstairs, or even of Gene’s disappearance. Next, he got one of the unmarked cars and made his way to the Mills. It wasn’t a long drive, and the streets were more or less deserted (compared to 2006 traffic, at any rate), and Sam kept a close ear on the radio transmissions. To his great relief, Phyllis was indeed beginning to pull units towards Ancoats, instructing them to surround the compound. There was no sign of Annie, or Ray and Chris… but maybe it was better that way. What Sam was attempting to do was tricky enough - if any harm came to them, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

 

When he arrived there, the area was deserted. Sam parked the car well away from the warehouse the files had mentioned and crossed the last few yards on foot, his heart beating in his throat as he weaved from shadow to shadow, expecting to come up against one of Johns’ gang on every corner. However, so far so good - he encountered no one until he reached the building in question.

 

As Sam approached what he assumed was the main gate, he could hear faint voices from the other side of it. His back against the brick wall, gun pointed at the ground, he hesitated for a moment before carefully making his way away from the entrance. If this was the main door, then surely there had to be some kind of emergency exit somewhere… And indeed, once he’d rounded two corners, there it was, a smaller metal door. Pressing his ear against it, Sam couldn’t hear anything, so gently, ever so gently, he began to push against the door…

 

… and it opened, near soundlessly. Internally thanking his luck over and over again, Sam ducked into the building, finding himself in a long, dusty hallway. Luckily for him (and again, he made sure to mentally thank whoever was responsible for this), small window panes near the ceiling spared him from having to navigate his way through utter darkness.

 

Slowly, Sam advanced further into the warehouse, constantly listening for those voices he had heard. There hadn’t been time to acquire a map of the place, so he had to rely on his memory where the main gate was located - if the layout turned out to be a maze, he would be in trouble.

 

But just as the thought came up, there was a sound. Faint, muffled laughter. Sam stopped, his ears straining to pick up more… and there it was again. Several voices. He could make out at least three different ones. If he remembered the results of Gene’s primary infiltration correctly, Johns’ gang consisted of six members, Gene and the leader himself included… Sam couldn’t decide if it was a good or a bad thing that most of them seemed to be occupying the ground floor at the moment.

 

Muscles tense, Sam rounded another corner-- and shied back. He’d reached the main storage hall much faster than he had anticipated. A good few yards away he’d spotted the men - three of them, as he’d estimated. One had taken a spot very close to the main entrance, occasionally glancing outside through a gap between the double doors, and Sam realised with a sudden surge of adrenaline just how easily he could have been noticed and taken down. The other two he hadn’t been able to see clearly, so he held his breath and inched slightly to the side once more, peering around the corner. A big red-haired bloke was sat fairly close to Sam, but with his back to him; the last, and smallest of the three was leaning against a pillar located close to a stairwell.

 

No sign of Gene, or Johns. No sound either, no faint voices; nothing to indicate that anyone else was down here.

 

Sam ducked behind the wall again, his mind racing. There might be a slim chance that he’d be able to make it over to the stairs without being spotted - but then what? He knew that, eventually, Gene would be thrown off the roof, but that didn’t mean they were up there already. He needed to make sure. There was no room for mistakes here, not anymore.

 

But giving up the relative safety of cover was a huge risk in itself, especially considering he was up against three criminals who wouldn’t hesitate for even a second to bring down a police officer. If they got him… Gene was good as dead.

 

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. Think, Sam - _think!_  

 

His head told him to wait, wait until he could be sure backup would arrive. It told him not to take the unnecessary risk of exposing himself.

 

His gut told him to get up those stairs as quickly as possible, trick the men into thinking they were done for.

 

Sam exhaled heavily, gripping the gun tighter. If he could pull this off without alerting Johns further upstairs to his presence…

 

Right.

 

Sam opened his eyes, steeled himself. Then, in one fluid motion he stepped out from behind the corner, swinging the gun up and pointing it at the red-haired man. ‘Nobody move.’

 

As expected, they all whirled around, startled by the sound of Sam’s voice. The bloke Sam was aiming at flinched back reflexively, half raising his arms.

 

‘What the--’

 

‘Who the hell--?!’

 

Sam let the muzzle of his gun swing over to the man by the door for a moment - a clear threat that he had eyes on all of them. His voice was dark and steady as he spoke. ‘Police. You’re under arrest. You two, back up against the door, hands where I can see them.’

 

There was a beat of silence. Then, the men began to move, hesitantly following Sam’s commands. One of them said, ‘Hang on - did you say police?’

 

In response, Sam undid the safety on his weapon. ‘ _Back up_.’

 

‘Alright, alright…!’ The men shuffled back, until all three of them were stood close to each other. Sam moved, taking measured steps forward, still aiming at them.

 

“Where’s Johns?’ he asked, resisting the urge to let his eyes flick over to the stairs. If he showed just one sign of insecurity, of hesitation, they’d try to overpower him. He had to keep them on the back foot.

 

The ginger man blinked. ‘Shouldn’t you know?’

 

And before Sam could respond, the smaller bloke chimed in, ‘Where’s the rest of you pigs?’

 

Sam pointed his gun at him. ‘Answer. The question.’

 

‘Upstairs,’ said one of them, but the ginger bloke cuts him off. ‘Hang on, hang on - I think you’re bluffing, boy!’

 

Sam advanced on them further, his wings beginning to spread and bristle (not that they could see it). ‘It’s over. This place will be swarming with coppers in a minute, so I suggest you stay exactly where you are.’

 

The men looked at each other, then back at Sam. And he could tell they’d all arrived at the same conclusion, a moment before they charged.

 

Something clicked in Sam’s brain, and his body began to move on its own. The safety mechanism on his gun clicked back into place as he switched it to his non-dominant hand and he ducked, avoiding the grabbing hands of the biggest of the three of them. Sam’s fist buried itself in the man’s gut, doubling him over. Not missing a beat, Sam grabbed the bloke’s shoulders and shoved him backwards, straight into the ginger man, and they both went tumbling to the ground. The third man was faster on his feet than the other two, aiming a punch at Sam’s head. He blocked it with his upper arm, swinging it down and to the side at the same time, which left the guy’s defenses wide open. One well-aimed hit to his temple, and the man went down like a sack of spuds. Breathing hard, Sam turned to the other two who had just picked themselves back up. Sam weaved out of the way as the red-haired man threw himself at him with a growl. He spun, and brought the corner of his hand down in a sharp chop against the man’s neck. He dropped to the ground with a grunt, and didn’t move again.

 

Sam was now face to face with the tallest of the three. Without hesitating, he raised his gun again, its muzzle mere feet away from the man’s forehead. Sam could see the bloke grit his teeth, anger flaring in his eyes… but he recognised that it was over.

 

‘Ropes,’ Sam said.

 

‘Bastard,’ the man spat, but he had lost, and he knew it. Under Sam’s watchful eye he moved, pulling a few lengths of rope from a nearby crate. Sam ordered him to drop it, then moved in, pulling out his pair of handcuffs as he went.

 

Handcuffing the tall man and tying up the other blokes’ hands couldn’t have taken long, but every second Sam was losing down here was another second that brought Gene closer to his death. So once he was done, he returned to the conscious man’s side and pressed the gun against his temple. His voice wasn’t much more than a growl now.

 

‘Where’s Johns.’

 

‘Th-the roof. With the DCI.’

 

Sam nodded - then flipped the gun and slammed its handle against the bloke’s head, knocking him out cold. And then, finally, he sprinted over to the staircase, beginning his ascent.

 

As he went, he thought he could hear the faint sound of cars approaching. If he was right… it meant Ray had listened to him. Sam didn’t allow himself to feel relief, though - it was far too early for that.

 

Finally, completely out of breath, Sam stepped out onto the roof. It was cold and windy up here, and Sam was met with a sight which did nothing to lessen the chill that ran down his spine.

 

Gene was being held upright by one of Johns' goons, the man himself standing next to them and talking, although Sam couldn't hear exactly what was being said. His wings drew Sam’s attention - they weren’t as big as Gene’s, but he could tell with one glance that they were strong and built to withstand even the strongest gusts of wind. Where Gene’s wings still had something of a noble look to them, Johns’ were nothing but scrappy and sturdy. And right now, as he stood towering over the DCI with his brownish wings spread slightly, Johns had the look of a fighting osprey about him. 

 

Nobody had spotted Sam yet, but there was nowhere to hide out on this roof, so he had no choice but to slowly approach the small group. Though the gun was in his hands, half raised, he hoped he wouldn’t need to use it...

 

As Sam got closer, he got a first proper look at his Guv, and what he saw made his stomach churn. The side of his face was black and blue from bruising, dried and fresh blood adding brown and red tones into the mix. His sweater and shirt were gone, the remains of the vest hanging off him in stripes. Sam glimpsed more bruises on his torso, more wounds – cuts, angry red welts. The worst part, though, was the sight of Gene's wings – not as mangled as they could have been, given Johns' history, but tied to Gene's back so tightly that Sam was sure they must be broken. Large chunks of feathers were missing as well, and some of them even looked like they had been cut off, pinioned roughly… Christ, no…!

 

Sam's heels clicked louder than he had intended them to, and Johns turned. He must have been expecting one of his underlings – his eyes widened as he spotted Sam, then narrowed dangerously. Sam stopped in his tracks and brought up his arms, gun outstretched and pointing at Johns - but he wasn’t fast enough. Johns was by Gene’s side within the blink of an eye, a switchblade snapping open as he pressed it against Gene’s throat. _Shit_.

 

'You've got balls, I'll give you that, _copper_ ,' Johns spat. 'Either that, or you're incredibly stupid, coming up here all on yer own.'

 

Sam felt the urge to laugh hysterically at such a cliched line. One more look at Gene's face squashed that urge quickly, though. His eyes were closed, and though Sam could see his chest jerking with shallow breaths, he looked barely conscious, hardly responding to his surroundings; he hadn’t even flinched as the blade came in contact with his skin.

 

Struggling to keep his voice even, Sam said, 'It's over, Johns. In just a few minutes, this place will be surrounded. You've got nowhere to run.'

 

'Oh aye?' Johns pressed the blade even closer to Gene's skin, making Sam's stomach twist more with equal parts fear and rage. 'Right now, I can only see one loony pig, trying to pretend it's a boar. You're on your own.'

 

'Believe what you will,' Sam responded, pouring enough unconcern into his voice to come off as confident of what he was saying, 'but it's going to look much better on your arrest report if you and your associates surrender now and come along quietly.’ 

 

Johns scoffed, but his mate looked somewhat alarmed. ‘Uh, boss…’

 

‘What?!’

 

In that moment, a sound drew his attention, and he turned to look down. Sam heard it as well - engines. And a second later, sirens, approaching the warehouse. And still he kept the relief at bay; Gene still wasn’t safe. Sam took a step forward, just as Johns turned back to face him.

 

‘Don’t you come any closer!’ he barked, and now, the blade was drawing blood.

 

Sam forced himself to keep his hands steady, his gaze hard and focused on Johns’ cruel face. ‘Face it, mate. You’re finished. Let him go.’

 

He could practically see the cogs whirring away in Johns’ head. The man’s eyes flicked to the side, to the other man, who looked visibly shaken. Then Sam’s attention was drawn in by another, miniscule movement - Gene’s eyes slid open. So he was conscious… good…!

 

Sam took another step. ‘Johns. You can still get out of this alive. Drop the knife, and let. _Him. Go_.’

 

Sweat was trickling down the criminal’s forehead, his chest was heaving. He was close to breaking point, Sam knew it. And the other man was visibly nervous as well, his eyes darting between Sam and Johns, his grip on Gene slacking...

 

Sam was so close... so, so close...!

 

But then, Sam saw Johns' face twist into a cruel grimace. Within an instant, he realised that the bastard was hellbent on having this last victory – this last splash of blood on his hands. He had nothing left to lose.

 

'NO—'

 

Even as Sam thrust out his hand in a futile attempt to stop this from happening, Johns grabbed Gene by his shoulders, pulling him out of his accomplice's grasp by his lapels. He growled something – Sam couldn't hear it over the blood rushing in his ears – half turned, and pushed.

 

Time seemed to slow as Sam saw Gene fall back, go over the edge.

 

Horror twisted his guts, clawed at his insides, stealing his breath away –

 

Then rage, defiance-- I came to fix this, _I am going to fix this_ – 

 

Sam found himself running, sprinting past Johns, not even hearing the door to the roof burst open behind him, not hearing the shouts of 'POLICE!' and 'PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS!'; he heard none of that. He only heard the wind rushing in his ears, felt metal connect with his foot, saw the abyss into which Gene was receding rapidly.

 

Sam jumped – no. He dove down head-first, hands outstretched as though he was rushing towards water instead of rock solid ground and certain death.

 

This wasn't going to happen.

 

He was going to catch Gene.

 

He was going to fly.

 

Fly.

 

Fly, _dammit!_

 

_**FLY!** _

 

A surge went through Sam. Later, he would describe it as the feeling of a tree suddenly growing a magnificent crown – he felt bones and muscles rush outwards, feathers rustling deafeningly in his ears, and a strength like he had never known before, taking hold of him.

 

He beat his wings down – a movement carrying such energy that it catapulted him further downwards, and suddenly he was on eye-level with Gene. He could see every detail with startling clarity – the pain etched onto Gene's face, eyes watering with the velocity at which he was falling, his wings struggling desperately against their bonds. Sam saw all that in a split-second before reaching out and winding his arms tightly around Gene.

 

'I've got you,' he said, but the wind tore the words from his mouth, and Sam doubted Gene heard him at all. It didn’t matter.

 

Once again Sam beat his wings – he knew they were big now, massive, their power rippling through his body with every motion – this time to attempt to divert their course, stop them from falling down like rocks. And realised with a sudden rush of dread that it wasn't working. He flapped his wings more insistently, but the added weight of Gene was too much, and he could feel wind currents tearing at his feathers, blowing this way and that, giving him no leeway, no chance to ride one of them and glide to safety.

 

So Sam did the only thing he could. He beat down with all his might, spreading his wings as far as they would go without the wind ripping them upwards, to at least slow their fall. Then, concrete filling his vision, he rotated, to spare Gene from the worst of – 

 

The impact. Sam felt it reverberate through him, felt all air leave his body before the world flicked off like a TV.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE that this is a triple update, so if you haven't checked the fic since its update earlier this week, please go back to chapter 14, otherwise you'll have missed out on the massive showdown!

It was quiet when Sam woke up. Quiet, and bright.

 

_Have I gone to heaven?_

 

His eyes still closed, Sam tried to concentrate. His brain felt fuzzy, his body strangely numb, and for some reason, he couldn’t form a clear thought. However, as the seconds ticked by, he gradually became aware of more than just the brightness beyond his closed eyelids.

 

Whatever he was lying on was soft and warm. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear voices, too far away and quiet to make out any words. Sometimes, there were footsteps, heels clacking on linoleum. And, coming from somewhere to his immediate right, there was the sound of steady breathing, and faint, rhythmic beeping.

 

Somehow, that last detail was very comforting. Satisfied with the results of his investigation, Sam slipped back into a doze.

 

**

 

The next time Sam found himself awake, he opened his eyes right away.

 

Hospital. He was, once again, in a hospital. The ceiling above him was off-white, sporting the occasional, unidentifiable stain. The light was just dim enough not to hurt his eyes as he gazed up for a few seconds, before slowly turning his head. To his left was the wall, coloured in a strange yellowy green colour that made him feel a little ill.

 

He was still in the 70s, no doubt about it. That fact alone caused a rush of a relief strong enough to make him feel dizzy. It hadn’t just been a dream. He had gone back, he had fixed his mistake.

 

Right?

 

Sam intended to look to his right next, where he remembered hearing someone breathe, but his slightly blurred gaze got caught up on something else instead.

 

A mass of black down his front.

 

Blinking, Sam attempted to push himself up. He didn’t get very far, as something tight was wrapped around his middle, restricting his movements, but it was enough. The black blanket covering him was, in fact, a large wing.

 

_His_ wing.

 

The other one had been unfolded, and it was trailing off the bed, propped up by something soft that Sam wasn’t able to see. When he tried to move it, he found it impossible - something was weighing it down, and his muscles felt so… _weak_.

 

Before Sam could do anything else, or attempt to even think about what this meant, he heard a voice.

 

‘Ah, you're awake.’

 

Sam looked up, meeting the gaze of a tall man in a white coat. A pair of sparrow-brown wings were neatly folded against his back, a fact that somehow put Sam at ease near immediately.

 

‘Doctor Mallory,’ the doctor said, extending his hand. Sam took it, shaking it as firmly as he could.

 

‘Sam Tyler.’ He paused, then added a little sheepishly, ‘... I suppose you already know that.’

 

Doctor Mallory gave him a little smirk. ‘Indeed. You and DCI Hunt over there have reached a kind of celebrity status in our little community.’

 

Sam blinked, the two bits of information struggling in his mind for a moment, before one of them won out, and he turned his head to the side. His vision had all but cleared, and so finally, _finally_ , he was able to see Gene.

 

Unlike Sam, Gene was laid out on his front. Both his wings had been put into splints, more professional looking ones than the one Gene had crafted for Sam, all those weeks ago. Logically, Sam knew that there was no way wings could be visibly bruised, and yet, it seemed to him like the feathers had lost a lot of their shine, the slightly yellowy patches appearing sickly grey now.

 

The other injuries were hidden underneath both the feathers and a thin blanket. Gene’s body was propped up expertly by a good number of pillows, making sure his spine wasn’t stuck in an awkward position.

 

Taking pity on Sam, Mallory answered his question before he was able to ask it.

 

‘He’ll mend. I’m not going to lie to you - he was in serious condition when you both were brought in. But with a lot of time and rest, he’ll be alright, eventually.’

 

It took Sam a lot of willpower to tear his eyes away from Gene and look over at the doctor. His chest was tight, the breath he took shaky.

 

‘... so… so I got there in time. Yeah?’

 

Mallory blinked, then nodded, his expression softening. ‘Yes. You saved him, DI Tyler.’

 

For a moment, Sam was perfectly still, his mind processing those words. His next breath came out in a rush, ending in a small huff. The corners of his mouth twitched into a small, disbelieving smile.

 

Then, it all came crashing down on him. The anxiety of the last few days - no, _months_ \- the memories of the struggle, the showdown on the roof, Sam’s jump, both jumps, the fear for Gene-- it all rushed at him at once. Sam’s eyes glazed over, and a second later, tears spilled down his cheeks. Mallory took a quick step forward, placing a steadying hand on Sam’s shoulder as he folded slightly, shaking with the quiet sobs that racked him.

 

**

 

Sam’s own injuries were light, in comparison to Gene’s. His left wing was worse for wear - that was the one that had mostly cushioned his and Gene’s fall - but overall, he was in remarkably good shape. Doctor Mallory showed himself impressed with the speed at which Sam’s wing was patching itself up.

 

Gene remained unconscious for another day. Although Sam had spared him the worst of the fall, Johns hadn’t held back as he worked the Guv over. A broken leg and ribs, countless bruises, lacerations, head injuries… And, of course, his wings. To Sam’s great relief, Mallory confirmed that Gene _would_ be able to fly again, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch as they slowly mended themselves, small fluffy downs and feathers slowly beginning to sprout from the bald patches.

 

‘He’s going to have to take it easy for a long time, though,’ the man said, looking at Sam over the rims of his glasses. Sam nodded in response, somewhat impressed by the fact that the doctor seemed to know Gene well enough to predict just how impatient he was going to be to get back into the air.

 

‘As for you…’

 

Sam sat up a little straighter, noting how the doctor hesitated, trying to decide how to best broach whatever subject he had in mind, though Sam thought he had a good idea of what was to come. And indeed, Mallory confirmed his suspicion.

 

‘... were you aware of the fact that your wings are… how shall I say this…’

 

‘Juvenile?’ Sam asked, half-joking.

 

Mallory blinked with slight surprise, but then nodded. ‘That’s a good way of putting it, actually. Of course, it’s very hard to get any kind of data on them, as you can probably imagine, but your wings… They don’t look like they belong to an adult.’

 

Sam felt his cheeks flush slightly, though he couldn’t exactly tell what he was getting embarrassed about. ‘Well, uh… It’s… it’s a bit complicated.’ He hesitated, trying to gauge how Mallory would react - whether he would believe him at all. The man inclined his head and slightly raised his eyebrows, as if to encourage Sam on.

 

Finally, Sam heaved a small sigh and closed his eyes for a moment. Apart from Gene, he’d never talked to anyone about this. But maybe Mallory - a doctor, no less - would finally be able to shed some light on this…

 

So Sam told him. Not the entire story, of course; no need to throw comatose time travel into the mix as well, when the situation was already complicated enough. But he told him about how his wings appeared when he was approximately four years old. How no one else could see them, and more importantly, he couldn’t see wings on anyone else either. Sam had always assumed that this was because no one else _had_ had any wings, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore. He told him about Warren’s assault on him, the horrible fear of heights… And finally, what happened when he dove off the roof in a desperate attempt to save Gene’s life.

 

‘That’s when it happened. They just…’ Lost for words, Sam imitated a sudden burst with his hands, in the process making it look like a small explosion. Mallory nodded; he’d been quiet through Sam’s entire story, though he had continued to encourage Sam on. Now, he absently tapped his pen against the clipboard in his hands, gaze unfocused. Obviously this was something he hadn’t encountered before… Sam’s hopes shrank.

 

After a minute of silence, Mallory finally spoke up.

 

‘... Well, that is most extraordinary. I’ve not heard of anything like it happening before.’

 

‘But--’ Sam started, ready to defend his story, but Mallory raised a hand to stop him.

 

‘I believe you, Sam. Don’t worry. As I said, it’s extraordinarily difficult to perform any kind of examination of these wings - try to x-ray something that doesn’t appear to exist!’ Sam gave a small huff at this - fair enough, he supposed.

 

Mallory continued, ‘But I _have_ been able to tell that your pair is… different. As you said, juvenile. They look like they belong to a teenager, not a grown man. And that, of course, corroborates your story, fantastical as it sounds…’

 

He lapsed into silence again, his lower lip stuck out in a small pout that reminded Sam of Gene. Then, he said, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep you in a day or two longer once your other injuries have healed. You took a tumble and bore the brunt of the impact with your wings, and I’d like to check that there won’t be any lasting damage, and that they have the strength to actually carry you.’

 

‘You can do that?’ Sam asked, surprised. ‘You just said it’s difficult…’

 

‘Difficult, yes, but not impossible.’ Mallory smiled. ‘We’ve developed methods. The science is very new still, but here at St. James’ hospital we’ve managed to set aside a small department under the pretense of cancer research. So, if you give your consent…’

 

Sam didn’t even need to think about it. Anything to help him gain a better understanding of what had happened to his body. Besides, this meant he’d be able to stay by Gene’s side a little longer.

 

**

 

Later that day, Sam learned that non-winged people weren’t allowed to visit this particular ward. It made sense, he supposed - questions would surely be asked if they saw how Gene had been laid out on his front instead of his back - but it was a little disheartening nonetheless. Mallory assured him that Annie and the rest of the team were being kept up to date to stop them from worrying; hopefully it would be enough.

 

**

 

To Sam’s intense relief, Mallory’s examination yielded positive results. Sam’s wings were, by all accounts, as healthy as they could be. He’d have to strengthen the muscles, seeing as he hadn’t had a chance to use them for most of his life, but that was something that could be rectified. One day, the doctor told him with an excited smile, he would be able to fly. Sam could barely believe it.

 

What Mallory couldn’t tell him, however, was what exactly had caused that sudden spurt of growth at exactly the right time. It already sounded like something out of a bad fantasy novel, so the fact that there was no way of explaining Sam’s experience scientifically wasn’t really a surprise, though it grated on Sam’s mind nonetheless. He would spend hours now, his wings folded around him like a cocoon, stroking and preening the feathers, touching them just to make sure that they were indeed real. More than once, he knocked over the things on his bedside table, simply because he wasn’t used to this sort of reach. Once his bad wing had mended enough, Mallory had to show him how to fold his wings up effectively so that he could sleep comfortably. It was moments like that which made Sam feel like he was in the process of learning how to walk all over again. While Mallory was nothing but patient, it was still embarrassing. The only person who had ever helped him in this way had been Gene… who was still out cold. According to the doctor, it would take another day, most likely; despite the fact that Sam had managed to catch him and soften the impact, Gene had sustained a considerable amount of trauma to the neck and spine. Recovering from that kind of injury would take some time.

 

Sam knew that, of course. However, he still just wished that Gene would finally wake up to see what had happened, and to make him feel less lonely.

 

**

 

It was the day after Mallory’s verdict that Sam’s hopes were finally answered. He’d just settled down to read a bit, when--

 

‘Looks like someone’s had a growth spurt!’

 

Sam abruptly looked up and over - Gene… Gene was awake! He looked pale and tired, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as they skimmed over the black mass that was Sam’s wings now. They moved slightly in response, Sam feeling the urge to fold them up and spread them out a little more all at once. It was the strangest sensation.

 

‘Looks like someone’s awake,’ he responded, swinging his legs around and over the edge of the bed. His body still felt sore, but he levered himself up nonetheless, moving over to carefully sit down on Gene’s bed. ‘About time too.’

 

Gene stuck his lips out in a pout, his eyes still fixed on Sam’s wings, which twitched in return as Sam raised an eyebrow.

 

‘What?’

 

Gene remained silent for a few seconds longer. Finally, his voice carrying a strange mix of satisfaction and nervousness, he said, ‘... Mine are still bigger.’

 

For a moment, Sam was stunned into speechlessness. Then, he started to laugh - small bursts at first, then proper laughter, more and more, until tears started to flow.

 

**

 

‘Knew the bastard was up to no good.’

 

It was a few hours later, and Sam - lying in his own bed again - had just finished telling Gene his side of the story, with no small amount of guilt. It was still hard to accept just how terribly Sam had misjudged everything, from Morgan’s integrity to the nature of his entire situation. But Gene hadn’t said a word, had just listened. And now, that statement.

 

Sam nodded, not looking at his friend. ‘... yeah. I should’ve known better.’

 

Gene scoffed. ‘You can say that again. Right pair of jammy dodgers, the two of you were.’

 

Sam could only huff at that, not trusting his voice not to break if he spoke up.

 

‘Johns rubbed it in my face too, the bastard,’ Gene continued. ‘Said I’d been sold out by my own. My own team.’

 

Sam looked up at that, feeling colour drain from his face. ‘You… you knew it was…?’ _Me_ , he thought but couldn’t bring himself to say.

 

To his surprise, Gene shook his head. ‘Knew he was lying, didn’t I.’

 

Sam swallowed. ‘But… I told him. About the operation.’

 

Gene’s gaze was sharp as he looked over at Sam. ‘But you didn’t tell Johns, did you. You told Morgan because you trusted him - not like you could’ve known he was a two-faced lying nonce. Do I wish you’d have come to me first? Yes, of course I bloody do. If you had, I wouldn’t be lying in this bed like a mouldy ruddy pancake!’

 

Sam couldn’t bring himself to laugh. ‘... I know.’

 

One of Gene’s wings twitched in Sam’s direction - it didn’t get far because it was still fixed in a splint, but Sam couldn’t help but assume that under normal circumstances, he’d have received a feathery whack over the head.

 

‘You did what you thought was best. And when you cocked up, you went back and put it right.’ Gene leaned over as far as he was able to, his gaze intense. ‘I wouldn’t be here now if you hadn’t.’

 

Sam returned his gaze, his vision slightly blurry. Finally, he nodded.

 

Gene leaned back, a satisfied expression on his face.

 

‘Good. Now. Your pipe cleaners - tell me about them.’

 

Sam took a deep breath and shook himself a little, his wings doing the same, resulting in a small flurry of black downs floating down on top of his blanket. Looking at the mess a little bemused, he said, ‘Nothing much to say. All Mallory could tell me was that they’re perfectly fine, if a bit weak. I’ll have to do muscle exercises if I want to use them for, uh, flying.’

 

‘Flying, eh?’

 

Sam looked over at Gene to see that twinkle in his eyes again. He couldn’t help it - a small, nervous smile spread on his face in response.

 

‘Yeah. Flying.’ The word felt alien on his tongue even now.

 

Gene, however, smirked. ‘Told you, didn’t I.’

 

Sam’s smile grew. ‘Yeah.’ Then, when Gene tapped his own forehead while suggestively raising an eyebrow, Sam couldn’t help but laugh. He knew what was coming, and indeed - when Gene opened his mouth, so did Sam, and they spoke in unison.

 

‘Trust the Gene Genie.’

 


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flying lessons!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE that this is a triple update! If you haven't checked on this fic since the update at the beginning of the week, please go back to chapter 14, otherwise none of this will make sense, haha. Enjoy!

Sam takes a deep breath. _This isn't the first time you've done this_ , he tells himself, a weak attempt to calm his nerves. Nothing to worry about. Nothing can go wrong.

 

Staring ahead, Sam takes a step, grass and leaves crunching under his boots. Another one. Speeds up steadily. Starts to run, his heart hammering hard, the buzz of adrenaline thrumming through his veins. He's so fast now, running at the highest speed he could possibly manage on this uneven terrain, wait for it, wait for it, wait for it, _NOW_ –

 

Sam jumps and spreads his wings simultaneously, feels the wind's current flowing through his feathers, is this it? Did he get the right one? His breath catches, he tenses, beats his wings down – 

 

And the current is gone, taking a different path than Sam had anticipated. He tumbles with a yelp and hits the ground, instinctively curling up and rolling a few yards before coming to a halt, body throbbing and sore.

 

Footsteps approach him, and Sam glances up, blinking as a large shape blocks out the sun.

 

'Well, that was pathetic.' Gene sounds amused.

 

Sam scrabbles up on his elbows. 'Give over! You've been doing this all your life and I’m just starting!'

 

'Less yapping, more flapping, Tyler.'

 

With a groan, Sam heaves himself up to his feet, carefully spreading his wings to see if there is any damage. It still feels so alien, the extra weight on his back. He nearly smacks himself with the left wing; even though it’s been several weeks, he still finds himself occasionally unable to really judge the force and reach of his movements. He hears Gene snort.

 

'Girl.'

 

'Chicken,' Sam retorts, doing his best to keep a straight face. He lets go of his right wing, turning around to face Gene. The man still has to rely on crutches – those fractures Johns caused are taking their sweet time to mend – but he manages to tower over Sam nonetheless, wings spread out loosely and lightly trailing across the ground.

 

Gene pulls his mouth into a pout. 'Still better at flying than you are.'

 

'Yeah well, that's not hard to pull off, is it.'

 

Instead of replying directly, Gene inclines his head towards the upper end of their 'training ground' – they're in the middle of the Peak District again. He would have jerked his head authoritatively, normally, but there still is some lingering trauma there, and even Gene knows better than to overexert his spine. 'Off you jolly well trot.'

 

And Sam does, taking a deep breath, beginning to trudge back up the slope. He doesn't relish the many rough landings he's had so far (his backside is complaining viciously), but he knows just as well as Gene does that he won't stop until he gets the hang of this.

 

Once again, Sam takes his position at the top of the hill. Looks up into the unusually blue sky, trying to really _feel_ the wind, gauge its paths. Gene says that in time, he'll develop a natural instinct for this, but Sam's never quite trusted his instincts only. He wants a good, reliable method. Gene doesn't rush him, doesn't get impatient, which is probably the most unusual thing about this situation.

 

Finally, Sam feels confident enough to give it another go. He exhales sharply through his nose, places his right foot back, rocks a little on his heels before setting off, running from the get-go this time. Maybe that's all it needs – a bit more enthusiasm.

 

And Sam _senses_ it. That moment.

 

His wings spread wide as he sprints, and a moment later, he catapults himself up – 

 

And _up_ – 

 

One beat, two, three, balance, there's the current, spread, use it, relax, yes – 

 

From below – a good fifteen feet below – Sam hears Gene's short burst of delighted laughter. Sam himself is laughing as well, feels tears gathering in and dripping down from his eyes. He beats his wings again, feels the strength of his muscles, the wind caressing his feathers as though promising to never let him down again.

 

This is it. This is how he was always meant to be, and where he was meant to be.

 

Sam is home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after over two years, here we finally are. Thank you _so much_ to all of you who've stuck with it and continued to follow this fic through every single hiatus. I'm glad to finally have it off my chest as well, haha! I sincerely hope you enjoyed the ride - I know it's not the most clear-cut of concepts, and a lot of questions are left unanswered, and all in all it's a bit supernatural, but I hope you won't mind. I always liked the ambiguity in Life on Mars the most (completely discounting A2A here and the 'explanation' provided at the end of LoM itself), so playing with it in this AU was a lot of fun. 
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to throw them my way. :) And comments in general would be greatly appreciated. ♥


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